The Desert's Edge
by CrashingPetals
Summary: The first time Gloss spends the night with Elara Winston, it's because he pities her. Acts of mercy have far-reaching consequences, but he isn't quite expecting that love will be one of them. Eight long years of secret meetings and hopeless pipedreams have a way of getting to you, but everything is about to come to a crashing end when the Mockingjay begins to rise. Gloss/OC
1. My love, you are an arid summer storm

_Full Summary:_ The first time Gloss spends the night with Elara Winston, it's because he pities her. Acts of mercy have far-reaching consequences, but he isn't quite expecting that love will be one of them. Eight long years of secret meetings and hopeless pipedreams have a way of getting to you, but everything is about to come to a crashing end when the Mockingjay begins to rise.

Hello and welcome to The Desert's Edge! I thought it would be interesting to write a story for Gloss, who is a character that is not mentioned very frequently in the books. I hope you all enjoy how I've developed his character throughout the story, as well as the original character that I created. To anyone who has read my Finnick/OC story, The Sterling Nightingale, this one is much less encompassing by comparison where it concerns the other characters and the canon plot itself. While this story will span the rebellion, the focal point is on the relationship between Gloss and Elara over what is going on with District 13, the rebels, and the other Victors.

This story is rated M due to explicit sex scenes throughout, as well as scenes depicting rape and torture. Because there are so many of said scenes, I may not always remember to add chapter warnings, so I want to extend a warning right now to anyone who is not a fan of smut. This story is definitely not for you.

* * *

**Chapter One | My love, you are an arid summer storm;**

"_With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls;_

_For stony limits cannot hold love out,_

_And what love can do, that dares love attempt."_

_2.2, 66-68 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

Elara Winston does not like crowds. She doesn't like a great many things, most of which bear resemblance to the city she is now in. Having just arrived in the Capitol that morning, her mood has plummeted to the very lowest point imaginable. She knows from experience that it will only continue on its downward course. She hates it here in this wayward metropolis, but she can't let it show. When the lights from the many interviews she will be filming blind her, she can't cringe. When the screams from adoring fans deafen her ears, she can't wince. There is only one reason why she likes this city, and _that reason_ isn't scheduled to be at the Capitol for another few weeks. She's alone in this hellhole, for now.

The only other redeeming quality of her current circumstances is that she's only here for a few more days before returning to her home in District 5, which means she'll be back in her own bed, with her younger sister by her side, in no time at all.

As one of the many celebrities of Panem, Elara must do her part to appease President Snow just like all the other Victors. If that means going to the Capitol a few times each month to keep up appearances, then so be it. She's got a sister to protect, and she knows only too well what happens to family and friends when a Victor says no to the President of Panem.

Standing off to the side of the stage she's about to walk onto, Elara brushes her hands over the crimson gown her stylist, Ignatius, had concocted for her this evening. It's an eye-catching number made out of silken fabric that is artfully twisted around her body. It matches the deep red lipstick she's wearing, well as the ruby earrings twinkling in her ears. It looks nice enough, she guesses, though she'd much prefer being at home where she doesn't have to bother with all these fancy clothes – and all of these hair pins that are digging into her skull.

By the time her name is announced by Caesar Flickerman, Elara is more annoyed than nervous – a typical response from her, at this point. She's been a Victor for eight years now, and she loathes these interviews with everything that she is. But, as she paints a smile on and steps onto the stage, Elara Winston looks far more enchanting and far less likely to rip Caesar's head off, as her fingers itch to do.

She can't help it – his gaudy blue hair is making her eyes hurt. Her ears hurt, too, but she's accustomed herself to both the Capitol fanatics as well as to Caesar's ever changing fashion sense.

"Our darling, Miss Elara Winston! Welcome!" Caesar exclaims, holding out a hand for her as she steps towards him in her red stilettos. She takes his outstretched fingers and waves to the crowd as he leans down to kiss the back of her hand with dramatic old school intent.

As they settle into the chairs, Caesar beams at her with his blindingly white teeth, and says in his typically over the top voice, "Now, Elara, tell us what you've been up to during the last few months. Any new hobbies?"

Elara laughs at him and sarcastically asks, "Does sleeping in every morning count?"

The inquiry is partially true, though most mornings Elara is up before the sun even rises. Sometimes when she's lucky, she'll sleep without nightmares plaguing her, but it's rare. There's only one cure that she has since discovered for these dreams, and…well, it's _also_ rare.

Caesar chuckles mirthfully and waves a hand at her response. "I'm not sure it does, my dear," he jokingly tells her, and then leans in to mischievously ask, "Any reason you're getting up so late? Perhaps a new…boyfriend?" As if he's surprised by his own question, Caesar jerks back with a gasp and shoots the crowd a wink.

As for Elara, she just sighs. She expects this sort of question every time she comes on this show. For some reason, Caesar is obsessed with her love life. He's always speculating about potential suitors or love interests, much to her utter annoyance. Of course, in its own way, Caesar's outlandish theories have helped more than once in terms of hiding her actual _love interest_ in plain sight. If she can even really call him that.

She rolls her eyes at him and snarks, "Not that I'm aware of, Caesar. Why, do you have any new hypotheses?"

The question seems to amuse Caesar, who chuckles and thoughtfully responds, "Well, you were seen out on the town with a very important man the other night – a fellow by the name of Mr. Seneca Crane. Rumor has it that he took you out to a very swanky restaurant."

Elara barks out a laugh. Caesar's right, to an extent. Seneca Crane had expressed a desire to take her out and enjoy her company, and Elara hadn't exactly had the option of refusing him. The man is a Head Gamemaker. He's a very important figurehead in the Capitol. She had refused to play into the system before, when she was still new to it and horrified at what was being asked of her, and it hadn't boded well for her parents.

She shrugs and reaches up to twist her earring. She turns the ruby stud a few times before thoughtfully responding, "Mr. Crane does on occasion take me out, but I don't foresee anything permanent forming between us. He's a very busy man, and I live in District 5." Then, deciding to take a chance, Elara adds, "Long distance relationships aren't easy anyway, Caesar. I'm afraid I have a terrible tendency of turning into a lovesick idiot whenever I'm in one."

She glances towards the cameras. Her eyes flash with just the hint of mischief before she tampers it down, but Caesar doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy jumping on this new information about her love life, which has become his self-proclaimed obsession. He seems to think that a woman as pretty and charming as Elara Winston should have droves of lovers and men falling at her feet, and he's always quite put out to learn that she's still single. Of course, Snow wouldn't actually allow her to be off the market, though she's not sure how much Caesar is aware of the reasons behind it.

"Oh?" Caesar leans forward, nearly bouncing in his chair with excitement. "So you've been in long distance relationships before, have you? You can't blame me for my curiosity!"

Despite the apparent corner Elara has unwittingly fallen into, the Victor just purses her mouth at the man sitting across from her and purrs, "I don't kiss and tell, Caesar."

The crowd lets out an 'awwww' that makes Elara want to tell them to mind their own damn business, but she maintains the perfectly blasé expression that she carries and just shrugs. Caesar pouts dramatically at her, but he recovers very quickly.

"I suppose you're allowed your secrets, my dear," he concedes, but the smile on his face turns quickly mischievous when he adds, "However, I think I've made a discovery of my own. Shall I run it by you and get your response?"

Elara would very much like to tell him no, that she couldn't care less about his ridiculous speculations and ludicrous assumptions about who she's apparently sleeping with, but she doesn't have that luxury. Instead, she just sighs at if she's dealing with a child, and says in a drawling voice, "I guess you'd better, Caesar. You might explode if you don't."

Her sarcasm, as always, makes Caesar laugh out loud. He turns to the crowd and yells, "Isn't she fabulous? I love her wit! Don't you just love it?"

Elara tries very hard not to roll her eyes. According to her stylists, it isn't befitting for a celebrity Victor. She thinks that's bullshit, but she'd rather not get an earful from Ignatius later on.

With a beaming grin, the famous anchorman turns back to her and gestures to the screen hanging behind them, high on the wall. She glances over at it curiously, and stiffens just slightly at the picture that blazes across it.

Oh, it's her all right. The picture must have been taken by an errant paparazzi. She remembers the scene vividly. It had been during her last visit to the Capitol, only a few weeks before. The visit which, as fate would have it, had coincided with another's trip.

Gloss Augustine has his arm slung around her waist, and they're both dressed to the nines. He had only just stepped off of a photoshoot, modeling the latest line of finely tailored suits that are currently the rage in the Capitol. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, showing off just the barest hint of chest, and his light brown hair is sinfully mussed up as if he's just rolled out of bed. He hadn't, of course, but the effect remains just as potent – especially with her by his side.

They're strolling down the sidewalk, in plain sight. It isn't as if they're trying to hide anything, considering the fact that they're in one of the busiest parts of the city. Wild Capitolites line the streets on each side, going about their own business while they ogle the celebrities who pass them by. It's a relatively common sight to see Victors in the streets of Panem, but it never fails to amaze these silly creatures whenever they catch sight of the proclaimed legends.

Wearing a slim fitting dress with her auburn hair piled up in intricate knots on the top of her head, Elara Winston looks just as polished as the man at her side. They're both wearing large smiles, as if they're joking back and forth. Elara is glancing up at Gloss with twinkling eyes. She can see why Caesar, and the Capitol at large, would wonder at their relationship. They do look very cozy, after all.

With a huff, Elara turns to Caesar and waves her hand at the picture as if she hardly thinks twice about it. In a calm voice, she tells him, "You are aware that I'm very good friends with both Gloss and Cashmere, aren't you Caesar?" With a smirk, she adds, "Though I do understand you're reasoning. Gloss can be a hard man to resist."

Caesar laughs and nods, "Yes, he certainly can. So there's _truly_ nothing going on between you?"

Elara just responds, "I think of Gloss as more of a brother. We're like siblings, you know? He drives me crazy half the time."

The explanation makes Caesar pout. "Well I guess I'm not surprised. You've been friends since you won your Games. It's nice to see some camaraderie between Victors, am I right folks?" The crowd cheers out their agreement, and Elara gives Caesar an indulgent smile that edges on a smirk. Oh, if only he knew…

To consider Gloss a brother would be like seeing the President of Panem as a father figure and role model. The thought is laughable. She can't have it getting around that her relationship with Gloss is more than shallow, though. If these people knew the sorts of things they get into when they're alone, well…frankly, that's none of their business, and it would very dangerous to boot.

She keeps these escapades to herself. She won't mention that she knows how Gloss looks when he first wakes up – the specific set of his expression and the sleepy crease of his eyes as they lock with hers from across the pillows. She won't say that she knows how beautiful he is when the sunlight hits his bare body just right, or the sound of his moans in her ear or the imperfect way he loves her. Or – the other things, the more mundane things. Like how he likes his eggs cooked if she's able to stay long enough for breakfast, or how he obsesses over skin products like she obsesses over electronics. And he does make her crazy, that part is true, but not in the way a brother might make his sister crazy. No, this particular form of insanity is very, very different.

She doesn't breathe a word of that, though, and Caesar doesn't seem to suspect that there is more to her connection with the famous Victor from District 1. They've been 'best friends' for years now, and apparently that's enough for these silly Capitolites, who so often don't look past what is right in front of them.

Caesar reaches out a hand to take hers, and says, "It's just as well, really! We want you all to ourselves – don't we? We do!"

The crowd erupts in loud, uproarious cheers, in total agreement with their dear anchorman. Their approval of Elara's single status is another reason why it's so important to keep her relationship with Gloss hidden. These people seem to dislike when their Victors find even the smallest bit of happiness. Their petty hearts are rife with jealousies, and Elara isn't stupid enough to undermine that. Snow isn't, either. So Elara just smiles as if Caesar's words make her immensely happy, and allows him to guide her into a standing position. She turns to face the crowd with that smile blazing across her face, though the edges of it are a bit blander now.

No one notices. As Caesar shouts, "Elara Winston! Thank you – thank you – ", the dimmed light in her eyes die down and she just stands there like a statue with that picture glaring down at her from behind her head. Seeing him again, in whatever form, only makes her miss him that much more.

No one takes any notice at all. No one in this room, anyway. But a hundred miles away in the living room of District 1's beloved Victor, there is one man who sees. He seems to see everything, when it comes to her.

Gloss stares at the screen with an unreadable expression on his face. He studies her with a hunger that always surprises him, whenever he feels it, because –

Honestly, he's never been without much of anything before. District 1 is a wealthy place and he's always had everything he needed, until she had stumbled into his life with her maddeningly sarcastic voice and fierce eyes. That was when he realized just how little he actually had.

It's amazing what one person can do to you. How just one variable can change the direction of your life. How you think you know exactly where you're going, until Fate crashes headfirst into your path and in less than a moment, everything changes.

Elara Winston is that variable, for him.

* * *

District 5 is the electric capitol of Panem. It's a rather gloomy place with its dark buildings and circuit lines, but it is home. Elara can't help but feel relieved when she takes in the familiar sight of it. She steps off the train in her fashionable dress, hardly looking like she would fit into this dirty place. She could daydream, only briefly of course, that she hadn't spent the last week in the Capitol at all. Her sentiments don't last very long, of course. Elara Winston does not daydream. Not much, anyway. Realistic as ever, she immediately pulls her hair out of its high ponytail and shrugs out of the expensive jacket she's wearing. These pretty things aren't meant for the squalor of District 5, where its near impossible to so much as walk down the street without getting dust on your person.

The Coriolanus 9 rises up in the distance, its towers brimming with what must be the grandest light source in the entire district. The weather here is often as dark and dismal as the town itself, and the huge power plant is like their own personal sun. Elara gazes at it as she walks down the street, ducking between factory workers and men dressed in the customary white lab coats that mark them as scientists. She often wonders what would happen if that power plant ceased to exist. If it stopped powering the Capitol as it does. Such rebellious thoughts plague her more than they should, considering her precarious status in society – a status that President Coriolanus Snow, for which that plant has been named, makes certain she upholds to.

Elara shakes her head of the thoughts and turns down the street. The Victor's Village looms ahead of her, its neighborhood marked by the tall iron wrought fence that separates it from the rest of the district. There are about a dozen houses, all kept clean by Capitol workers, but only two of them are occupied.

She is one of only two Victors here. District 5 does not often win the Hunger Games. Its tributes are small and thinly framed, often favoring the pursuit of intellect over physical strength, and it is of little surprise. To land a job as a scientist or an engineer is usually the goal of every student. It is the highest paying position here and is seen as a very successful career. It certainly holds more favor than some of the other jobs in District 5. Even Elara herself dreamed of such a life, once, but that was a long time ago. She does not have the luxury of dreams, now.

"Elara! You're home!" cries a familiar voice, and Elara smiles as she turns to see her younger sister, a girl of eighteen, rush out of the house several doors down.

In less than a second, Amelia Winston is throwing her arms around her sister and exclaiming, "Finally! I'm starving. Make me pancakes for dinner!"

The sudden energy that her younger sister pushes upon her makes Elara grumble, "Seriously? That's the first thing you think to say? Can I make you _pancakes?"_

Amelia pulls back to grin at her and says in a faux sweet voice, "Well it's not like you can cook anything else."

Mouth agape, Elara stares at Amelia for only a moment before slapping her arm playfully. "Why I never! When did you get to be so disrespectful?!" There's a gleam of mischief in her eyes, though, that offsets the harsh tone she's using. With a grunt, Elara pushes her sister towards the house and mutters, "You little brat."

Amelia just laughs and snarks, "I learned from the best."

She's clearly referring to Elara herself, who isn't exactly the most respectful or proper woman alive even on her good days. The reminder, though, makes Elara sigh. If she hadn't refused President Snow that first time, then Amelia wouldn't have ever turned to her as a mother figure of sorts. She'd still have their mom to show her how to be a far better person than Elara could ever be. Instead, Amelia is left with the snippy, sarcastic sister who hasn't been the best role model these last eight years, as Amelia grew into the young woman she is today.

Amelia doesn't seem to notice Elara's sudden silence, though Elara suspects that she knows exactly what her sister is thinking. The two of them have a strange relationship, where they express affection through less friendly means. They keep their sentimental hearts on a very firm leash. God forbid they actually tell each other how much they care.

"I really hope you haven't gotten into any trouble while I've been gone," Elara drawls as she shuts the door behind them. Before it closes all the way, Elara sees the curtains shift in the other house across the street, and Harley's face peers at her from the window. She raises a hand to him, but doesn't wait for a response, because Amelia is complaining about how Elara never trusts her.

"What kind of trouble could I get into?" she sarcastically asks, heading over to the kitchen to pull out the pancake ingredients.

When she turns an expectant gaze to her sister, Elara rolls her eyes at her antics and snipes, "Oh I don't know. How about tagging the Coriolanus with your ridiculous smiley faces? Seriously, if you keep doing stuff like that, you're gonna get into trouble, and it won't matter _who_ you're related to."

Her Victor's status won't save her sister's rebellious spirit forever. To be honest, Amelia's tendency of breaking the rules is worrisome to Elara, who is only too aware of the potential repercussions that might occur in the aftermath. Not that it stops her, either, to some extent. After all, she's not supposed to be in a relationship with Gloss Augustine from District 1, but it doesn't stop her from jumping into bed with him the first moment she can. Bad habit and all.

Amelia, as ever, just scoffs at her sister's carefully framed concern and changes the topic. "So. Pancakes?" she prompts, pushing the bowl forward expectantly.

Elara sighs. "I literally just got home. I'm taking a shower first, and then I'll make your freaking pancakes."

She doesn't complain beyond that, though. Making pancakes for her younger sister is the least she can do, after splitting their family in half with one single word to President Snow. Just a simple 'no', one time, and both her parents were found dead the next morning. An accident, she was told. They got electrocuted in one of the power plants because they made a mistake in the operation room, which they both happened to be in at the same time. It's frankly laughable. Her parents were geniuses. They wouldn't have made such a trivial mistake without taking precautions.

Elara knows that they died because she had refused to be Snow's sex slave – not that it had mattered much, in the end. Snow doesn't hold back when pursuing vengeance. After killing her parents in a freak accident that was really just a haphazardly construed murder, Snow had proceeded to threaten Elara with Amelia, who was only ten years old at the time. He had given her an ultimatum: obey him, do everything he says without question, and he will let her sister live. Disobey, and her sister will meet the same end as her parents. There is very little one can do, when they are pressed into a corner like that.

She leaves Amelia downstairs to take her shower. Washing off the stale scent of perfume and Capitol shampoo is only her second priority. The first is the need to wash off everything else. She hadn't taken a shower that morning, deciding to just get out of the Capitol as fast as she could. She regrets it a little, but only because she can still smell the barest hint of Seneca Crane's cologne on her and it makes her nauseous.

Honestly, she's actually fairly lucky. Snow doesn't control her nearly as much as he controls Finnick Odair, who is notorious in the Victor community as being the most expensive plaything in the Capitol. By comparison, her schedule isn't nearly as full. Not that it makes her feel any better when she's sitting in a hotel room waiting for the next man who has bought her company that evening, or going out on dates with people she couldn't care less about, forced to smile and play pretend despite wanting to do the exact opposite.

Turning the hot water on, Elara sighs out and steps into the shower, tipping her head back and drenching her hair. She scrubs her body until its red and raw, as is her custom upon returning home to ensure that she washes away every single trace of the Capitol. By the time she's done, Amelia is banging on the door and demanding pancakes in an insistent voice, and Elara is sighing out again and wrapping a towel around herself with an aggravated huff.

She can't imagine living without Amelia. Her sister is loud and annoying, but her life would be so very dull without the girl. She's the only one who can make Elara genuinely smile. Well – there is one other person, but he is far, far away from her.

She misses him. She can't help it. To be honest, she doesn't even know for certain what they mean to each other. In the beginning, Gloss had been little more than a small sliver of comfort that he allowed her to steal from him, and he from her – a form of feeling something, anything, that would make them feel alive. But it's been eight years since they started fooling around with each other, and even though she had once been perfectly fine with the thought of him being her 'friend with benefits', that had changed a long time ago.

She is ever the realist, and even she can't deny that her feelings for him are deep and encompassing, but there is very little to be done about it. They can never be together the way she wishes they could. Snow would never allow it. The most they can settle for is the odd meeting in the Capitol when their schedules allow it, and seeing each other for the Games every year when they step into the role of mentors.

She should be thankful for that, even though her selfish heart yearns for more, always. When it comes to him, she always wants more.

Once Elara is dressed, she pads back down to the kitchen to make dinner. Admittedly, pancakes aren't exactly the most nutritious meal, but it's something of a treat for her and Amelia. The ingredients are hard to find in District 5, where such things as eggs and flour are more expensive. The meal has become something of a tradition that they take part in every time Elara comes home.

As she starts to whip up the batter, her sister walks in through the front door carrying a small stack of letters. No doubt the mail has been lying in wait in their mailbox since Elara left for the Capitol nearly two weeks ago. Amelia has a tendency of forgetting to collect it when her sister is gone. Not that there's much to collect anyway.

Some correspondence from Amelia's school is on top of the pile, which Elara huffs at because she knows it's probably a complaint. Amelia is not exactly a star pupil. She prefers to spend her time hunting down trouble as opposed to studying. Nonplussed by the mail and assuming that there's nothing worth her immediate time, Elara returns to the pan and melts a pad of butter on the heated surface. She's just about to start dropping batter onto it when Amelia suddenly says, "You got something. I think it's from your _boyfriend_ in District 1."

Elara's head snaps up so quickly that she's surprised she doesn't get whiplash. She looks over at Amelia, only to see that the girl is smirking wickedly at her as she holds up a creased letter between her fingers.

Elara snatches the letter with a glower and snarks, "He's not my boyfriend. Don't talk like that." It's dangerous. Amelia should know better.

Still, she doesn't say another word as she tears the letter open. Her fingers shake a little. Whether it's from excitement or nerves, she doesn't know.

Amelia tries to peek at the letter's contents from over her shoulder, so Elara turns the pan off for now and grabs her coffee mug. She walks out of the room with another glower for good measure. Amelia makes a face at her, which Elara childishly returns.

"What about the pancakes?" Amelia shouts, but Elara is far too busy leaning against the wall and devouring the familiar scrawl of writing. The message is short, in his usual brief style, but potent in that it makes her heart race and her mouth edge up into an eager smile.

_To Miss Elara Winston,_

_District 5_

"_A hard man to resist?" I'm glad you're finally coming around to my charms. It's only taken you eight years. Cashmere is breathing down my neck while I write this. I keep telling her to mind her own business but you know how she is. She says hello._

_By the time you get this letter, you should be back in District 5. Either that, or your damn sister has opened your mail and you'll be in for a really long episode of teasing, because:_

_Elara Winston, you'd better get ready. The first moment I see you at the next Games, I'm going to make you even crazier than I already apparently do. _

_Cashmere tells me I should erase that because it sounds borderline psychotic. Thoughts?_

_I don't think our schedules will overlap in the near future, so I look forward to seeing you in two months for the Games. I'll think of you every day._

_Your __brother__,_

_Gloss Augustine_

_District 1_

Elara snickers to herself, staring down at the way he had signed the letter off. He had underlined the word 'brother' twice, and she knows it's because of her recent interview with Caesar Flickerman. Apparently, he thinks it's hilarious that she would refer to him like that, but as always, he's willing to keep up the pretenses. It isn't as if they have any other choice.

His whole letter is very carefully composed, with no obvious references to their relationship. From the casual observer's perspective, one might assume that he really is just a brother to her, and that his desire to drive her 'crazy' has more to do with endless teasing and brotherly conduct than anything else. From her perspective though, it's quite the opposite.

She shivers at the thought, and allows herself a brief, lovestruck grin that doesn't really go with the image she's cultivated in the Capitol in the last eight years. Elara Winston is tough, confident, and sarcastic, but when she's around him, she turns into a total idiot.

Love is chaotic like that. It has an awful tendency of turning even the most level-headed people completely insane.


	2. In cloudy blue, the roughness of a gale

**Chapter Two | In cloudless blue, the roughness of a gale;**

"_And we mean well in going to this masque,_

_But 'tis no wit to go."_

_1.4, 48-49 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

Two months pass in a haze. Elara goes to the Capitol several more times, but unfortunately her schedule doesn't coincide with Gloss's, and she's left to deal with her demons alone. Sometimes it feels like Snow is dangling bait in front of her whenever he requests her presence in his city. A part of him must be at least somewhat aware of what the two Victors get up to in their spare time. It's impossible to hide something of this caliber from the man who sees all and knows all. When he arranges for Gloss to be in the Capitol at the same time as her, it feels like he does so on purpose, as if their meetings amuse him. She wouldn't put it past him, not that they ever make it obvious how deeply their affections truly run. Pretending that their relationship is little more than a mutual form of comfort-through-sex is far safer for them and their families. Whether they have fully convinced President Snow of this is questionable at best, though. Snow has a terrifying tendency of seeing through even the best laid plans, and the firmest convictions.

In any case, by the time the Seventy Forth Reaping comes, she hasn't seen Gloss in about three months, and the nightmares have found their way back to her without him by her side.

On the morning of the Reaping, Elara wakes up with a lurch. She nearly tumbles out of her bed, haunted by the faces of those she's killed and the bloody sights she had witnessed during her Games. She sits up in bed for a long moment, running her fingers through her hair in a pathetic reenactment of Gloss's comforting touch, and sighs.

The annual Hunger Games is a blessing and a curse for her. On the one hand, she must watch more children die. She must watch her tributes fall to those who are stronger and more cunning. Her nightmares always get worse this time of year. The sight of the arena, in whatever form it comes in, is a constant harassment to her already fragile spirit. And yet –

On the other hand, she gets to be around Gloss for several weeks straight. She gets to hold him and touch him and kiss him and feel him in all the ways she's been utterly craving during their long absence. She gets to pretend that, in the wake of the recent deaths that this Games will bring, her life can be somewhat normal. As normal as it possibly can be, at least.

She both loves and hates herself for the thin excitement that she feels coursing through her veins. To be excited about returning to the Capitol to witness yet another Hunger Games is wretched in every way she can imagine, but she misses him _so badly_ that sometimes, it hurts even to breathe.

Can a middle ground exist, between this cadence of love and hate? In Gloss, she thinks it can.

"Are you up yet?" Amelia shouts through her door, giving it a good knock just for the hell of it.

Elara groans and pulls herself out of bed, scowling at the door with an aggravated, "Yes!"

The response she gets is a muffled, "Just making sure!"

With a sigh, Elara throws on her robe and leaves the room, following her sister down the stairs to make something to eat. Amelia's put on a pot of coffee, so she goes ahead and fills a mug before going to the fridge to browse the contents of it.

Leaning against the door, she raises an eyebrow and drawls, "Amelia, what happened to all the food I bought the other day?"

The shelves are practically barren. Besides the half empty bag of lettuce and the leftovers from the night before, there's not much else. Elara glances behind her shoulder at her sister, who looks up and shrugs.

"We ate it?" she asks, looking both unsure as well as utterly uncaring. Elara purses her mouth at her.

The Reaping doesn't start until noon, and it's only nine o'clock. That gives Elara three hours to make sure the house is livable for the next few weeks while she'll be in the Capitol mentoring the tributes. In the meantime, Amelia will be here in District 5. Though she's eighteen and can take care of herself, she has a terrible tendency of forgetting about doing simple things, like going grocery shopping or checking the mailbox or cleaning. That last one, especially, gets on Elara's nerves.

"I'll go shopping before the Reaping," she tells Amelia, and sighs again. Her relationship with her younger sister has never been difficult, per se. The only challenging aspect between them is that they are so alike that they sometimes get on each other's nerves more than not. Amelia hates when Elara worries about her and treats her like a daughter, which Elara can understand. It wasn't supposed to be like this, after all. Their relationship should have been guided by their parents. Their mother should have been the one to raise Amelia from the ten year old girl she had been before to the young woman she is now.

Amelia glances over at Elara and slowly says, "You don't have to. I can go later. It'll give me something to do."

She looks over at Amelia and frowns. Amelia frowns back in perfect imitation, which amuses Elara more than she can admit. She's glad to have her sister in her life, and despite their tendency of annoying each other as only sisters can do, Elara will protect her with everything that she is.

"Your stylists will be coming soon," Amelia reasons, when Elara opens her mouth to argue. "If you're gone when they arrive, they'll go batshit crazy. You know how they get."

With a sigh, Elara supposes she's right. Every year, as per custom, her stylists come to the districts of their Victors and help prepare them for being in the limelight of the Reaping. They'll be up on stage in front of cameras, which means they can't just go the Reaping dressed in their casual clothes. As with everything, the Capitol must ensure that its Victors always look the part. The only Victor who doesn't bother with this treatment is probably Haymitch Abernathy from 12, though Elara suspects its only because he's scared his stylists away with his drunken behavior.

"Alright," she agrees, but adds, "Don't buy any of that sugary crap though."

"Yeah, okay _mom,"_ Amelia drawls with a roll of her eyes. She gets up with a huff and says, "Stop worrying about me so much. Honestly. I'm eighteen already. I can go grocery shopping by myself, thanks."

Elara scowls at her, but she doesn't have time to respond before the doorbell is ringing and suddenly, the living room is filling with the squalor of Capitol stylists. Amelia shoots her sister a look and scurries away before she can be roped into trying on any dresses. Fashion is _not_ Amelia's forte. It isn't Elara's, either, but unfortunately, she can't ignore her stylists when they appear in the kitchen doorway.

"Elara dear!" Fariya cries upon seeing her. Excitement crowds the lines of the familiar face. Elara paints on a careful smile as they all rush forward and descend upon her.

And then –

"Oh my goodness, _what_ have you been doing with your hair?" Ignatius exclaims, looking utterly horrified. He reaches forward to tug on a strand of her auburn hair, which is currently unbrushed, and gasps, "When did you wash it last? Girls, go get a bath ready pronto. _Pronto!"_

Elara sighs as she watches the others scuttle out of the room. The sound of their footsteps on the stairs is like listening to a herd of wild bulls stampeding up a hill.

"Ignatius," Elara greets. There's a sardonic twist in her voice that goes unnoticed, because her head stylist is too busy eyeing the rest of her figure with a look of rumpled disdain.

"Have you been waxing?" he demands, and jerks her robe to the side to peer down at her bare legs. Elara lets him, though the sudden movement makes her twitch in surprise.

It's only been a few weeks since her last visit to the Capitol, so apparently the state of her legs isn't his primary concern. His expression crumples into relief, but soon turns nervous again when he catches sight of her hands.

"Oh dear," he says immediately, scooping up her free hand with a selective eye. He peers at the dirt beneath her fingernails with a look of outrage, as if the very sight of dirt makes him feel sick to his stomach. If that's the case, he really shouldn't have come to District 5.

She rolls her eyes at him and snatches back her hand with a tight, "Oh relax. It's nothing you can't fix. Stop being so dramatic."

Her lilt of annoyed sarcasm makes him frown at her. Apparently, he's not in the mood for it. The Reaping is in two and a half hours and he's already going into his stylist mode, which means that she's better off just keeping quiet until it's passed. She's been through enough of these sessions to know how he gets.

With a clap of his hands, Ignatius cries, "Upstairs, now! Honestly, I don't know why I requested to work with District 5! I thought it would be better than working with the outer districts but sometimes I wonder!"

Elara doesn't respond. She just puts her coffee mug down with a mournful glance and lets him shepherd her upstairs to the tub, which her other stylists are filling with scented perfumes and skin-enhancing serums.

It's a grueling two hours, but Elara puts up with them because she knows she's better off letting them do what they need to do. By the time Ignatius is zipping up the gown he'd designed for her, she looks nothing like she had when she'd stumbled out of bed that morning, sweaty and gasping from another nightmare. No, now she looks like Elara Winston, Victor and Capitol celebrity.

She does have to give Ignatius credit. He's very good at what he does. His designs are sometimes a bit outrageous for her, as he draws much of his inspiration from Capitol fashion, but this time around he's managed to maintain a subtler effect. The dress is a steel blue color, and it makes her hair look redder and her eyes a lighter shade of blue. It's a wrapped design that hugs her body and flares out at her knees with a burst of peplum that shoots down to the middle of her shins. Her stylists have twisted her hair into a classy updo that's finished with studded blue gemstones. The twinkling blue matches her shoes.

"Finally," Ignatius heaves, walking around her with his arms crossed and studying every detail of the look. Elara just stands there, watching her stylists twitter at each other happily on the other side of the room. They're spewing the latest gossip as if its oxygen to inhale, but with a single look from Ignatius, they settle down.

"Let's go! The Reaping starts in thirty minutes and we've got to get to that stage," he chimes impatiently, hooking an arm around Elara's to drag her from the room.

Amelia is nowhere to be seen as they exit the house. She's probably at the Reaping already. It's her last year, though technically she has immunity since Elara became Victor. It's probably one of the only good things to come out of her winning the Hunger Games. Amelia has never known the fear of standing in that crowd of children and desperately hoping that her name is not called.

As they make their way out of the Victor's Village and into the dirty streets of District 5, Ignatius waves a hand in front of his face and disdainfully spouts, "Aren't there any street sweepers in this district? It's so dusty. Last year, I had to have my clothes dry cleaned _three times_ after the Reaping, my suit had so much grime on it."

Elara doesn't respond, though her other three stylists twitter in garish agreement, complaining about how dirty their shoes already are. The stylists won't be sticking around for much longer, though. They usually tend to board the train immediately when the Reaping starts, preferring to keep their own company while the district conducts its business.

At least she won't have to listen to them complaining. It is true, though. The only part of District 5 that isn't grimy is the Grid, a large and expansive neighborhood where the wealthier citizens live. It's spanned out around the Coriolanus 9 and the other power plants, making their commute to work easy. Mostly scientists and engineers live there, and the streets are far cleaner. The rest of the district is less appealing.

Outside of the Grid, the houses are rundown and dirty. The streets are gray and dismal and the pride and joy of District 5 – the surplus of electricity – often flickers or goes out entirely. A lot of residents in the outlying neighborhoods go without commodities like heat in the winter, and are often forced to turn to more primitive methods of warming themselves to stay alive. Bonfires are common in the city circle, when the Peacekeepers are feeling generous.

Elara and her family used to live on the outskirts of the Grid, as both her parents were renowned hydroelectric scientists within the district. Growing up, they'd been relatively lucky, and rarely had to collect tesserae more than a few times. It had just been a stroke of bad luck that she had been chosen as a tribute, back during the 66th Reaping.

In any case, the Victor's Village in District 5 is on the other end of the town, far away from the bustle of the power plants. It's nice, because the constant buzzing of the plants doesn't reach the village as strongly as their old house in the Grid. It's bad, because they have to walk through the slums of town in order to get to the Justice Building. Not that Elara has ever minded. She's more than capable of taking care of herself, and a little dirt doesn't frighten her.

Her stylists have a weaker constitution. By the time they reach the Justice Building, they hurry off to the train with flimsy goodbyes and waves of their hands, leaving Elara to mount the steps of the platform by herself.

Her district partner, a man in his fifties named Harley Balstrod, is already there. When he sees her, he just gives her a short nod. Elara merely nods back as she takes her place beside him. Though they've been neighbors for eight years now, they hardly ever talk to each other. Harley rarely leaves his house, and Elara spends half her time in the Capitol. Conversation between the two have always been stilted, at best, awkward at worst, and after a while, Elara just gave up. She likes to think that they have a mutual understanding of each other, which is good enough for her.

After ten minutes, the town square is filled with the residents of District 5. The escort, a woman named Olive, seems to have embraced her name as never before, because she comes out on stage dressed in olive green, from her shoes to her stockings to the hat that sits on top of her hair. It's frankly cringeworthy, and Elara makes a face at her the moment her back is turned.

"Welcome to the Seventy Forth Reaping!" Olive demurely greets, tapping the microphone first to ensure that it's on. Her voice carries out over the masses, which are deathly silent as they stand there and await the events.

Elara thinks that this is probably the worst part of the Hunger Games, having to stand here on this stage and look out at all these young faces, wondering which one will be called. She knows from experience how fast their hearts must be racing. It's awful to watch them stumble to the stage, pale and frightened, knowing that they will most likely die. District 5 rarely ever wins the Hunger Games.

The short movie that they always watch before the Reaping begins to play out. Olive, who has been the escort here in District 5 for as long as Elara can remember, watches it silently until it's over, and then turns back to the microphone to call the names.

"Girls first," she announces, and reaches into the bowl where dozens upon dozens of names are waiting. She plucks one out of the middle, unfolds it, and carefully reads, "Matilde Paynor."

Utter silence falls upon the crowd. Elara looks out to see which girl owns the name, until she catches sight of the thin girl leaving the sixteen year old pen. Her face is pale as she walks almost robotically to the stage. Coupled with her bright orange hair, her pale skin makes her look ghostly.

"Congratulations, dear," Olive says warmly, pulling the girl over to her. Then without further ado, she reaches into the other bowl and calls, "Now for the boys, Graham Tweed."

Again, Elara skims the crowd, only to have her heart drop in her chest when she realizes that the male tribute this year is only a thirteen year old boy. He leaves his pen with watery eyes, looking as if he's mere seconds away from balling his eyes out. Elara purses her mouth as she watches him, silently praying that he doesn't give into his desire. He's already at a disadvantage for being so young, but if he starts crying, the target on his back will get much larger.

Luckily Olive seems to notice this too, for she wastes very little time with wrapping everything up and ushering the tributes into the Justice Building. The whole affair lasts little more than twenty minutes. That's how long it takes for two families to be ripped apart forever. Elara glances over at Harley, who looks grim, and they follow the peacekeepers into the building silently.

She sees Amelia waiting by the train to say goodbye, and the first moment she can, Elara wraps her arms around her in a rare hug.

"Be good while I'm gone," she whispers, holding her tightly. Amelia hugs her back too, just as tight. There's no telling how long they'll be separated. Sometimes, the Games take more time than normal to finish, but that's only if the Gamemakers are in a particular mood.

Elara draws back and firmly says, "Don't go making trouble, Amelia. No sneaking out after dark. You know there's a curfew, and I won't be here to save you from the Peacekeepers' wrath."

Amelia uncharacteristically nods, without arguing. She seems to realize that this isn't the time. The atmosphere is dismal and far too serious for that.

Well, almost.

With a sly smile, Amelia leans in and whispers against Elara's ear, "Say hello to you _boyfriend_ for me."

Elara jerks back, sends her a glower, and mutters, "Seriously, Amelia?"

Amelia just smirks widely. The smile fades quickly though. Elara would be blind not to notice the sadness lingering in her sister's eyes.

"Hey," she says quickly, grasping her shoulders firmly, "I'll be back before you know it, and then we'll be sitting down to a dinner of pancakes as if this never happened."

They both know that's a stretch, though. After the Games, Elara always gets worse. Her nightmares return with full force, and she spends her hours staring out the window like a ghost. The combination of the horrors of the Games, coupled with having to say goodbye to Gloss _again,_ makes Elara so depressed that she goes days without sleeping or eating or even talking.

It worries Amelia, but she knows better than to mention it now. Instead, she just nods and says, "Yeah, okay. I'll see you soon."

Elara squeezes her shoulders and boards the train, following her tributes onto the car and watching the doors of it soundlessly shut. She doesn't stop to linger at the windows, and Amelia doesn't wait until the train has pulled out of the station. The two sisters go their separate ways, yet again, as the whims of the Capitol pull them apart.

And, as Elara takes a seat in one of the plush velvet chairs and smooths out her dress, each mile that descends upon her quietly erases the Elara Winston that District 5 knows, and replaces her with the celebrity image that has been borne from weeks upon weeks of time spent in the Capitol.


	3. In gentle skies, a fury misinformed

**Chapter Three | In gentle skies, a fury misinformed;**

"_The time and my intents are savage-wild,_

_More fierce and more inexorable far_

_Than empty tigers or the roaring sea."_

_5.3, 37-39 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

Her parents had been hard working and realistic. They had instilled within Elara a certain level-headed foundation for which their daughter had grown from. With plenty of wit and common sense behind each and every action, Elara Winston is rarely described as being silly or ignoramus. She prizes intellect before humor, and has paved her way into the high ranks of Capitol society with her feet planted firmly on the ground.

It's funny how all of her common sense just flies out of the window the moment they reach the Tribute Center.

Keeping one hand on Graham's thin shoulder, Elara and Harley march their tributes inside. They had already explained to the kids that it's far easier to let the stylists do whatever they want, within reason. It won't be a nice experience, but it's important that they don't struggle. Elara had paid special attention to Graham, patting him on the back and telling him to be strong. He hadn't responded to her words, and it had made her feel like a lousy mentor. She's doesn't say anything else while the two tributes are whisked off by their stylists.

Harley grunts, "Come on." And the two of them start down the hall. It'll take a good hour, at least, for the tributes to be done over. Most of the mentors gather in the parade room while they wait, exchanging greetings and getting caught up with each other. Elara heads that way, too, with an eager gleam in her eye. Harley gets ahead of her, no doubt to go find Haymitch or Chaff, but Elara has someone else in mind.

She's turning the corner when a hand suddenly reaches out, grabs her, and throws her into the wall. The room careens for one split second as she gets slammed into the concrete, heart hammering in shock and fear, until –

Lips converge on hers before Elara has a chance to even see who has so roughly grabbed her, and the familiar scent of Gloss's cologne wafts over her.

"What the hell, Gloss – " she tries to say, intent on scolding him for his backward handling of her. He grabbed her and threw her into a freaking _wall_ for God's sake – but he only drags her bottom lip between his teeth and mutters, "Shut up, Winston."

Well. She does shut up, but only to drag him closer with clawing fingers, getting him back in other ways. She rubs against him, hooking her leg around his waist and kissing him back with feverish intent. By the time Gloss groans and pulls away from her, his eyes are gleaming and his face is flushed just so, and the look he's sending her makes it fairly clear that her form of retribution has worked.

Leaning over her with his fingers pressed tightly into her waist, Gloss murmurs, "We have a lot of catching up to do."

She hums in agreement, fingers grasping the collar of his expensive looking suit, and breathes, "God I missed you."

The words make him soften, somewhat. At once, he transforms from the lethal, muscular Victor from District 1 into someone that only she knows. His eyes melt to a smoldering hazel, and the planes of his face relax as he reaches up to caress her cheek. She really has missed him. So much more than she can put into words.

"Me too," he whispers, so quietly that she barely even hears him. But she does, and Elara trails her hands over his chest with a sigh and looks up at him, wondering if her own transformation is as obvious to him as his is to her.

He leans down and kisses her again, slower this time. The haphazard desire that had fueled their previous movements seems to drop away now, as he draws her into his arms. She melts against him, and she's sure that she's messing her lipstick up but she doesn't care at all, not now. She doesn't care about anything but the safety and the warmth of his body pressed against hers.

It's been so long. Weeks without him. Without his voice or his strength or his love. Now that she has him again, it almost feels like she's been starved of him, and she's suddenly ravenous with a hunger that only he can quell. She's not surprised at her own reaction to him. This is how it always is, and she fears that this is how it always will be.

A voice interrupts them.

"You two might want to stop. Some stylists are heading our way," Cashmere drawls, and Elara pulls away with a gasp because she hadn't realized that the woman had even been there to begin with.

She shouldn't be surprised about that, either. Cashmere has become their ever-present look out, intent on protecting her brother and her friend from the eyes of the Capitol. Their relationship is dangerous and they need to keep it hidden as much as possible. If it got out to the public, Snow would be furious. They both have images to maintain – reputations that fuel the undercurrent of their places within Capitol society. If they upset the balance then the repercussions would be catastrophic.

Gloss frowns and pulls away from Elara with a muttered curse, but can't help the smirk from overriding his face when he catches sight of Elara's blush. He nudges her, and she scowls over at him.

"Why're you blushing?" he chuckles, eyeing her up and down with a cocky smirk. It is a rare sight, she supposes. She hardly ever blushes.

Scowling deeper, Elara hisses, "I hadn't realized that your sister had a front row seat to that kiss." Then she adds, "If you can even call it that."

He laughs and pulls her over to said sister with a wide grin. Cashmere rolls her eyes. "Please. I've seen way worse between you two."

The sarcastic edge of her voice doesn't exactly make Elara's blush lessen. She shoves Cashmere playfully, and the woman snickers before pulling Elara into a hug.

"Missed you," she tells her, and asks, "How's District 5?"

With an annoyed grunt, Elara drawls, "Same as ever. Amelia drives me insane half the time. The other day I was even called to her school to talk with one of the teachers. It was so mortifying."

Gloss chuckles, throwing an arm around her waist and then pulling his sister to his other side, and wonders, "What did she do this time?"

As the three of them walk down the hall towards the parade room, Elara explains the latest family drama, much to the amusement of her lover and friend. The District 1 Victors are mischievous in their own ways. They've always liked Amelia, though in truth, they've never actually met her. Her constant bouts of trouble make for amusing tales, though, and both Cashmere and her brother enjoy the stories that Elara weaves about her wayward sister. But by the time they reach the room where the chariots are being readied, the topic takes on a darker tone.

"Got any promising tributes this year? We haven't watched the Reapings yet," Gloss murmurs. They stand over to the side watching the avox workers prepare the horses and the other Victors greet each other as more of them enter the room.

Elara shrugs, trying to maintain a careless expression when she responds, "I've got a sixteen year old and a thirteen year old this year. The girl might have a chance." The other half of her sentence isn't voiced, but it's pretty obvious regardless. The boy doesn't have any chance in the world of winning, unless he's some kind of progeny like Finnick Odair, who is the youngest winner in Panem's history. Elara highly doubts that though.

There must be something in her tone – some errant sadness that she can't completely hide, because Gloss tucks her into his side quietly and whispers, "Hey. This happens, right? It's the Hunger Games." His voice is calm and gentle, but it doesn't make her feel any better.

She edges closer to him and sighs, resting her cheeks against his broad shoulder. On his other side, Cashmere murmurs, "We just have to get through the next few weeks, that's all. Look, I'm gonna go say hi to a few of the others. Don't get into any compromising positions over here." She says that last bit with a joking tone, but there's a serious gleam in her eye. She clearly doesn't trust them to keep their hands off each other.

Both Gloss and Elara roll their eyes at Cashmere. As she walks away, Elara playfully scoffs, "As if I would be caught dead in a compromising position with you."

She can't see his face, but she can tell he's smirking when he drawls, "Well you do apparently think of me as your brother, so I guess that'd be pretty awkward, wouldn't it?"

She laughs against him and gives him a sideways glance. There's a teasing look in her eye as she responds, "Well I couldn't very well tell the entirety of Panem that I occasionally jump into bed with you, now could I?"

He laughs and sarcastically asks, _"Occasionally?" _With a squeeze to her hip, he turns his head to murmur in her ear, "Should we make tonight one of those occasions, Winston?"

She shoots him a look and mutters, "You know we have to be careful. This whole building is bugged like no tomorrow."

He smirks, "Well that hasn't stopped us before, has it?"

Memories of rooftops and maintenance closets bombard Elara's mind before she can stop them, and she snickers, "My head still hurts from when that damned broom fell on us."

He chuckles too, but his expression takes on a slightly more serious edge when he sighs and whispers, "I wish we could just go back to my apartment. Or stop sneaking around altogether."

Elara raises an eyebrow at his tone and sarcastically tells him, "Careful, Gloss. If our relationship gets out, Snow might make you marry me to keep up appearances."

She means it as a joke, honestly, but Gloss only hauls her closer turns his mouth to her ear and drawls, "What makes you think I wouldn't?"

She freezes against him, shocked at his words. But Gloss only smirks wider, shoots her a wink, and lets her go. He ambles off to the District 1 chariot, where Cashmere is speaking with another Victor, but Elara can't look away from him.

_What makes you think I wouldn't?_

She smiles, but it's low and sardonic and a little hopeless. Even if he wanted to – even if _she_ did – marriage is just not in the cards for them. It could never be. Snow would sooner finish off the rest of their families than ever let them obtain even the smallest shard of happiness.

She sighs, thinking of Amelia and District 5, the home she had grown up in and her parents. Maybe things would be easier if she doesn't have to constantly think of Amelia's safety. Maybe she wouldn't have to be so careful about meeting up with Gloss. Some parts of her life might be fuller and more perfect, but the majority of it would darken. Amelia gives her hope. She doesn't usually let it show, but Elara loves her so much.

"Hey, Winston, looking sharp as ever," Johanna from District 7 calls, and Elara glances up at the woman. As usual for these types of events, Johanna is dressed in casual but crisp looking dress slacks and a silk shirt. She hates wearing dresses unless she absolutely has to, and she isn't afraid of biting off her stylist's head whenever he suggests it.

"Johanna!" Elara exclaims with a wide grin, and walks over to give the other Victor a hug. Johanna grumbles about the mark of physical affection as she pulls away, but overall doesn't seem to mind. The two have been friends for years now. They're just alike enough to have plenty of similarities personality wise, and different enough to make their friendship interesting. It hadn't been a surprise to any of the other Victors when they had become friends.

"You looked pretty cozy just now," Johanna drawls, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrow. Elara scoffs at her but doesn't reply. It's not like there's any point in trying to deny her closeness with Gloss. Most of the other Victors are pretty much aware of their clandestine relationship, but none of them have ever spoken about it outright. Such is the strange connection that all Victors have.

Johanna's eyebrow juts ever higher at Elara's silence. "You know, falling in love is just gonna get you hurt in the end."

Elara sighs and elbows her friend in the side with a hissed, "Would you keep your voice down? And who said I'm in love?" When she glances over at Johanna's wry expression, Elara quickly adds, "My relationship with Gloss is strictly sex, no strings attached."

It's not entirely a lie. To be quite honest, they've never defined their relationship as anything deeper; never talked about their feelings beyond the occasional brush of affection. What's the point? It isn't as if they would ever be allowed to solidify any possible feelings that they have for each other. It would hurt all the more if they admitted them aloud, when nothing can actually come of it.

Johanna doesn't look convinced though. She snorts and mutters, "That's such bullshit. You two look like lovestruck idiots whenever you're in the same room."

Elara glowers at her friend, but again doesn't reply. Johanna's right, after all. She, for one, is a lovestruck fool. As for Gloss…

His surprising comment from before whispers at her again as she glances across the hall to where he's standing.

_What makes you think I wouldn't?_

Her eyes soften.

Had he meant that? Does he actually want more from her, or had he just been saying that to make her feel better?

His head turns in her direction as if he can feel the weight of her stare, and his eyes clash with hers. He sends her a smirking wink that makes her purse her lips at him. Beside her, Johanna scoffs again, watching the whole thing with barely contained disgust.

Love isn't really her thing.

"Like I said – lovestruck idiots," she mutters, and pushes Elara playfully as she struts off. Elara huffs at her and turns towards the chariots, but instead of being upset, she feels a grin work its way over her face.

Being able to be with Gloss, in any form, is something she's waited so long for. It doesn't matter that they can't be a normal couple. It doesn't matter that they can't even admit to each other the depth of their feelings. As long as she's here now, with him, she doesn't care.

But – she knows all too well what the long nights will feel like, after this is all over. When she goes back to District 5 and he goes back to District 1, and the nightmares plague her, and the other side of the bed feels cold and empty without him. And her smile slowly falls from her face, because the mere thought of living without him is poison to her. The long stretch of weeks bereft of his presence is a weight that drags her down like nothing else.

When she lifts her eyes to look at him again, she realizes with a start that he's staring at her with a careful expression, as if he can see right through her – right into her thoughts. He tilts his head like he's silently asking her if she's alright, and she smiles at him.

It's a bland smile. He knows.

Maybe the whole world knows.

There's a sudden commotion on the other side of the room as tributes in full costume step into the room. Elara turns her attention to the large doors, looking for her tributes. Harley makes his way over to where she stands, searching as well. When she sees the kids, Elara heaves a sigh.

They've been dressed up as lightbulbs again. What were the stylists thinking? How hard is it to use electricity as inspiration?

With a wry glance towards Harley, Elara lifts a hand and gestures for them to step over to her. Matilde, the girl with the bright orange hair, grabs Graham and pulls him forward. Graham looks out of his depth in this great hall – and in the ridiculous silvery costume he's wearing. Of course, there are plenty of other comical looking tributes walking around, but honestly. Sometimes Elara thinks that the stylists have a contest every year, betting on who can come up with the most absurd look.

"Alright, now remember what we discussed on the train," Elara says, grabbing hold of both her tributes as Harley lingers beside them silently. He's not much of a mentor. To be honest, he hadn't even been much of a mentor when Elara was in the Games eight years back, but he'd been a little better than he is now, at least.

"I want you to stand up straight with your heads up," she tells them as Harley steps forward to hel them into the chariot. Their costumes are cumbersome things, and it isn't easy to maneuver around in them. As Harley helps Matilde up, Elara looks at Graham with a serious expression and says, "And Graham, I want you to smile. I want you to charm that crowd."

Graham's lip wobbles a little. He looks at Elara with eyes that are quickly filling with tears. Beside him, Matilde stays very quiet.

Elara has never been very good with kids, but something strikes her then as she looks at Graham's expression. A certain hopelessness that makes her own eyes water, too, even though she forcefully pushes her tears away. Crying will do her no good, despite how little hope actually exists for this young boy to survive.

"Listen to me," she murmurs, grasping his shoulders and leaning closer. She studies his face carefully and sighs, "Just get through this parade and you'll be finished for the day. I promised I would help you and I will. But for now, you have to be as strong as you can."

He nods quickly, bites his lip, and swallows back his fear. Elara watches him compose himself with a tight expression. She already knows that this boy's death will haunt her forever. She can already feel it coming.

"Go on then," she whispers, nudging him. He turns and clambers up just as the District 1 chariot starts rolling out of the huge gates, where millions of Capitolites eagerly await the first glimpse of this year's tributes.

The parade begins, and suddenly Gloss is taking Elara's hand and grasping it firmly as he pulls her over to the elevators that will take the Victors to the other end of the tribute center. If she's surprised at his presence, she doesn't show it. And if the other Victors think it's odd that Gloss would pull her into an elevator and hit the button before anyone else can board, none of them remark on it.

Gloss doesn't say a single word as he pulls Elara into his arms. She collapses against him in exhaustion. The thought of watching Graham die is physically taxing. He must see some of that in her eyes, because he just holds her closer and buries his face against her neck as they get whisked to the other end of the center.

They don't say a single word to each other. It isn't necessary. Gloss has been a Victor and a mentor for longer than Elara, having won his Games before her. He's had his fair share of younger tributes, and he knows from experience how hard it is to watch them die and to wonder if he had failed them somehow.

Elara grasps him tightly, drawing from his strength. He gives it to her freely, clenching his hands around her waist as if he's trying to propel it into her with physical force. He's practically holding her up as she leans into him, but the moment the elevator beeps and slows to a stop, Elara pulls away and they straighten themselves out silently.

Before the doors can open though, Gloss quickly whispers, "Meet me on the roof tonight? At ten o'clock?"

She barely has time to nod before their moment comes to an abrupt end.

And then, as if the whole thing had never happened, they two of them step out into the room full of stylists and shut back their emotions are easily as if they didn't exist at all.

And – that's the part Elara hates the most. The ease of it all. The way she can just pretend that she doesn't care about the man by her side. The way she can pretend that they're just best friends, and that's all they've ever been and all they ever will be, when in reality it couldn't be further from the truth.

She loves him. She thinks she might love him with everything that she is, but…

In a way, Johanna is right. Victors are not allowed to love. It will only hurt them, in the end.

If only she could stop herself from falling for him.

* * *

She can't though. She falls deeper every time they're together. It's like the undercurrents of a large ocean that pull her further down, and she can't escape its clutches no matter how hard she tries.

"Gloss," she murmurs against his neck, the shard of a moan wavering through her voice.

He hikes her up against the wall, hips fluidly moving against hers. Their love is pressed into the cement. Their muffled moans are the backdrop of hastened desire that has no beginning and no end and cannot be drawn out any more than it already is. The dark night rushes to greet them and whispers at the cadences of their love.

"Shh," he hushes, fingers grasping and tight as he heaves her up. Her legs hook around his waist, skirts thrown up haphazardly. Lips arch together. It's quick and rough and perfect in its own way; imperfect in another.

This is what they settle for. This quick coupling is all they're allowed for now.

"Gloss…Gloss…"

Maybe it's all they'll ever be allowed.

She wants to tell him she loves him, but…

She doesn't.


	4. A tempest trapped in a preserving squall

**Chapter Four | A tempest trapped in a preserving squall.**

"_I'll look to like, if looking liking move;_

_But no more deep will I endart mine eye_

_Than your consent gives strength to make it fly."_

_1.3, 97-99 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Elara Winston doesn't know the Capitol as well as she will. She gets lost easily. She barely knows how to get to the new apartment Snow had given her. So – she doesn't know how she ends up stumbling into this particular bar, in this particular part of the city, at this particular hour._

_Maybe it's some strange twist of fate that throws her into his path. Maybe it's just that she's slightly tipsy and in desperate need of getting full out drunk. All she knows is that the moment she reaches the bar, two hands are gently grasping her and pulling her abruptly away, and she's not quite drunk enough to make a scene about it – especially when she realizes who has gotten between her and her drink._

_Gloss Augustine is pulling her to the back of the bar, where it's less populated and darker. She's such a new Victor that it takes her a minute to remember his name, but she recognizes his face easily enough._

_District 1, winner of the 63_ _rd_ _ Hunger Games. He's known in the Capitol as a famous model. His face is all over the place, from billboards to magazines. He's even been in a few commercials. The Capitolites are desperately obsessed with his voice, which they describe as being honeyed and sexy, and his masculine appeal certainly doesn't hurt either. He's got the appearance of a typical Career: impressively muscular frame, sculpted good looks, and most importantly, a very charming, Capitol-centric disposition. At least on screen._

_Elara is so confused to see him that she doesn't struggle, even when he pushes her into one of the booths and slides in beside her, no doubt to ensure that she doesn't try to move._

_Narrowing her eyes at him, Elara scorns, "What the hell do you want?" She sways a little in her seat._

_Gloss sighs at the sight she makes and pushes a glass of water her way. She doesn't take it and he doesn't make her, just leaves it innocently in front of her in case she changes her mind._

"_Heard about your parents," Gloss murmurs to her after an awkward moment. "Is that why you're in this state?"_

_He wouldn't be surprised. News involving Victors tends to get around pretty fast, especially between Victors themselves and especially when it concerns the latest one. Since Elara Winston is the newest Victor in Panem, the Capitol has been obsessively tracking her for the tabloids ever since she sarcastically told Caesar Flickerman that she had known she'd be the winner all along._

_Apparently, her sarcasm is addictive – according to Capitol Weekly, anyway, which did an article just the other day about Winston's various sarcastic drawls and how to differentiate between them. Gloss thought it had been rather amusing._

_Anyway, news about Victors travels fast, and the news that both of Elara's parents had died in a freak accident in the Coriolanus 9 power plant back in District 5 has been buzzing around the city for days now. Being a Victor himself and much less disillusioned than he'd been directly after winning his own Games, Gloss isn't stupid enough to look past the obvious. For her parents to get into an accident so soon after her Games, and for them to die in the Coriolanus 9, of all places, is almost like a slap to the face to anyone with a brain. The Coriolanus 9 is, after all, named after Coriolanus Snow, President of Panem. Her parents had not died in any freak accident like the news stations had spun._

_Beside him, Elara's mouth twists into a scowl, but Gloss sees how much she's trembling, as if she's trying very hard not to cry. He swallows at the sight, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. He doesn't really know how to deal with crying women. Cashmere usually just shoves him away whenever she's feeling upset and tells him to stop being mushy._

_To be honest, he doesn't even know why he'd dragged Elara back here. He's been sitting at this unassuming little table for about half an hour now, nursing a drink as he waits for the night to end. In the morning, he'll be heading back to District 1 after spending the last week here in the Capitol. He's just waiting for the sun to come up to take him back home to the edge of the desert where he belongs._

_It had been unexpected, dragging her back here before the rest of his brain can catch up. Elara Winston's presence in the bar seems to have caused a bit of a stir with the current patrons, and Gloss knows how dangerous that can be. Maintaining a careful image while in the city is imperative, but she clearly doesn't know her way around these people yet. She's only been a Victor for a matter of months and doesn't know how the system works yet._

_Gloss isn't sure why he'd decided to help her out and remove her from the public's attention. Maybe he feels bad for her. Maybe he just wants to drink in peace without the bar freaking out about having another Victor in their midst. Either way, none of those reasons are helping him now – not when Elara Winston is sniffling and blinking back tears._

_Clearing his throat, Gloss hesitantly puts his arm around her shoulders. He feels exceedingly awkward about it, but Elara is either too tipsy or too heartbroken to share the feeling. Within seconds, she turning herself against him as if she's known him for years, burying her face into the fabric of the expensive suit he'd worn to a photoshoot earlier that evening._

_As her fingers grasp onto it, he finds himself tightening his hold of her, thankful that the dark lighting in this far corner does a good job at hiding their current position. He definitely doesn't need any tabloids spewing bullshit about him getting involved with the new Victor._

"_He killed them," she suddenly whispers, sober enough, it seems, to keep her voice down. With watery eyes, she looks up at him and swallows, "Because I told him I wouldn't do it."_

_Gloss holds his breath. He knows what she's talking about. Cashmere had been through the same thing; the sick ring of prostitution that many of the Victors deal with. Even he himself has gone to a few hotel rooms in his time. Unfortunately, it tends to be far worse for the female Victors._

_He pulls her against him. Suddenly he doesn't feel very awkward anymore. That doesn't mean he knows what he's doing by any stretch of the imagination, but he thinks he does fairly well when he murmurs, "That's what he does. Dangles bait in front of you and gives you ultimatums. You've got a little sister, right?"_

_He'd heard all about the sister from Elara Winston herself, when she had charmingly explained to Caesar Flickerman during the initial tribute interviews how much Amelia drives her crazy. The ten year old is apparently very talented with getting into trouble._

_Mention of her sister makes Elara bury herself farther against him as she whispers, "I have to protect her."_

_The response tells Gloss two things. That Amelia Winston is currently okay, and that Elara is not going to say no to Snow again. His heart clenches at the thought of her having to endure the same torment that Cashmere does, but he knows there's nothing he can do, especially as a District 1 Victor. He can't exactly give her support when they live hundreds of miles away._

"…_When?" is all he asks._

_She shivers when she answers, "Tomorrow night. A previous Gamemaker."_

_His arm tightens around her slim shoulders. Anger and sadness course through him. Despite having a reputation as a Capitol lover, as most Victors from District 1 do, he isn't the same person that he portrays on screen. His careless smirk is saved for his Capitol audience. He is first and foremost a brother who will protect his sister from harm. He finds himself, abruptly, wanting to protect her, too._

_He's not sure why, exactly. He doesn't even know Elara Winston. He's met her only a few times, having been formally introduced during her Victory Tour when she had come to his home district to make her speech before heading off to the Capitol. She has a reputation for being a woman with an edge, but right now she looks broken and mournful. Maybe it plays on his masculine nature, this need to protect. Maybe there's another reason entirely that he cannot yet grasp._

_He's about to say something – anything – to comfort her, but then she blurts out, "I've never even had sex before and they want me to do it with a man old enough to be my grandfather!"_

_That shuts him up pretty fast. Awkwardness returns in a sharp wave, and Gloss shifts uncomfortably as he grapples for something to say in response. He can't find anything, and Elara seems to realize his discomfort._

_She draws away with a muttered, "Sorry. You probably don't want to hear this."_

_Gloss opens his mouth to deny her words, but just ends up closing it again. It's partially true. He doesn't really want to hear it, but not because the topic itself is awkward. The real reason is that he just doesn't know how to comfort her. He's never been very good at coming up with the right thing to say._

_She looks just as uncomfortable now, and a lot more sober than before. After a moment of total silence, she reaches for the water glass and drinks it down just to give herself something to do. Gloss watches her every movement. Something churns behind his eyes, but she doesn't try to figure out what it is. She's not sure she cares all that much._

_In truth, she's a tiny bit embarrassed. She just blurted out the fact that she's a virgin to Gloss Augustine, one of the most attractive men in Panem. He must think this entire situation is laughable. How many women has he had in his bed? She imagines that it must be a lot. He was probably putting notches on his bedpost long before he rose to fame as a Victor._

_She's never much cared about things like this before, but ever since President Snow had politely recommended that she obey him without question unless she wants to get the remainder of her family killed in more 'accidents', she hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. She's so nervous that, couple with her parent's death, she's been a total wreck. So she really doesn't expect the words that leave Gloss's mouth. She really, really doesn't._

_He shifts again, turning to look at her with a serious glint in his eyes, and hesitantly wonders, "Do you…I mean, if you want, we could go back to my apartment…? I would be gentle with you…I mean – Christ. Never mind. Just forget I said that – "_

"_Are you propositioning to me?" she wryly asks. Apparently, she's regained some sense of herself, because the wry edge of her voice is back with full force. Gloss actually feels nervous in the face of it. He thinks his palms are a little sweaty._

_Rubbing his forehead, he murmurs, "No. Well, yes." He pauses, then adamantly says, "No." And then proceeds to flounder a bit in the booth, which is really rather off putting for him, because he's never floundered in his life._

_When he glances over at her, Elara is wearing a very quiet smile. Her eyes have stopped watering. He only feels a slight twinge of pride at the fact that he's stopped her from crying. To be honest, he's more overcome with his own mortification. He's usually a lot smoother than this, but in all fairness, he's never offered to have sex with someone out of pity._

_Is it pity though? Surely that's the majority of his reasoning, but Elara Winston is very pretty with her twinkling blue eyes and her auburn hair. She has a very petit frame with slender shoulders and sharp cheekbones. He just thinks that she deserves more than when Snow intends to force her into. At least for her first time, he can save her from the torment that she would otherwise feel. And – to save her, in some small way, is the only reason why he's bringing this up. He's been to his fair share of hotel rooms. He knows the horrors that await her._

"_You don't have to," she tells him, and pats his arm as if she's the one doing the comforting. It makes him chuckle._

_He leans in and murmurs, "Listen, I'm leaving for District 1 tomorrow morning and I know I won't be getting any sleep tonight anyway. I'm willing to…help you out. It'll be a little awkward but…I know how these things work, Winston. That man isn't going to be gentle with you. He's not gonna care about your comfort at all."_

_His straightforward words make her frown, looking down at her hands in sullen silence. He sighs and reaches for her, drawing her hand into his and quietly telling her, "My apartment is just a few blocks away."_

_He waits to hear her response. He's surprised to find that his heart is racing in his chest, as if he's nervous about being rejected. Or – maybe he's nervous about his offer being accepted, because he can't remember the last time that he's done this willingly. It must've been before he won his Games three years ago. Since then, any intimacy he's experienced has been either forced onto him or has equated to little more than one night stands back in District 1 in an endless quest to feel something sincere. He hasn't been very successful so far._

_Elara looks over at him and asks, "Why are you doing this? You don't even know me."_

_He pauses, eyes locking with hers, and slowly responds, "…I couldn't save my sister from this, but I can save you. At least for tonight."_

_But he's not sure if that's really the reason or not. All he knows is that Elara Winston is a slight young woman with an addictively wry smile, and he doesn't think that her first time should be with some old sixty year old man. A girl like her should have someone capable of showing her what intimacy can truly be – the good and the bad – and maybe he's not that person, but he's the only candidate at this moment._

_She looks down at their hands and very haltingly says, "…You said your apartment is nearby?"_

_It's the only response he needs. With a soft smile, he squeezes her hand and pulls her up, heading out into the squalling streets. And he's not completely sure that she really enjoys being with him as the night progresses, but he's very gentle with her. He's probably gentler than he's ever been before, and he thinks she appreciates it because after it's all over, she kisses him chastely on the mouth and murmurs, "Thank you, Gloss."_

_It's a funny thing to say after having sex, but he doesn't question it. Instead he just pulls the sheets over them, idly rubs her back, and jokingly murmurs, "I think this is the start to a great friendship, Winston."_

_And – she laughs at that. He'll remember the sound of her laughter for months after. The way she turns into him and chuckles against his chest will make him smile. He's right, in a way: it is the start to a great friendship. But it's also the start to something else, too. Something that has the potential to steal his breath away. Something that will make his heart burn with sorrow and love at the same time._

_They hadn't know it then, but that night had only been the beginning._

* * *

Elara returns to the Tribute Center the next day several hours before dinner. She's been out on the town, hunting down sponsors for Matilde and Graham. It's always a bit challenging, finding sponsors for District 5. They don't have the same reputation as the Career districts, and this year, there is another group of contenders that seem to have taken the Capitol by surprise: District 12.

Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark wowed the entire city last night during their initial interviews with Caesar Flickerman. The whole place is in an uproar about Peeta's apparent love for his district partner, which has everybody twittering in excitement about this new turn of events. And then there's Katniss, who is strong and tough and definitely not the usual type of tribute who comes out of District 12. They're definitely people to watch out for this time around.

Even Haymitch has put aside his customary devil-may-care attitude this year. Since they've arrived with their tributes, Elara had witnessed first hand his attempts at swaying the masses and securing sponsors. It had been…well, amusing isn't quite the right word for it. Out of character, perhaps. He usually drinks his hours away, resigned to the fact that District 12 rarely ever wins the Games.

Elara can't blame him. It's hard watching your tributes die year after year. She sometimes wonders if she'll be that resigned, too, when she's been through as many Games as him.

"How did your first day go?" she wonders as they all sit down for dinner in the District 5 suite. Matilde and Graham are quietly eating, and it's fairly apparent just from watching them where they are from. Even if Elara hadn't already known, it's obvious that Matilde is from one of the nicer neighborhoods in District 5. If not the Grid itself, then another higher income home. Graham, on the flip side, is clearly from a poorer part of town. The way he shovels food into his mouth is telling.

Everyone turns to the tributes to hear their responses. Ignatius, who is Matilde's stylist this year, pauses as he sips from a golden drink that shimmers subtly in the lighting.

When they don't immediately answer, Olive huffs, "Well, tell us already."

Elara glances at her, a quiet warning blazing through her eyes, but Olive hardly notices. She's too busy helping herself to another portion of sautéed vegetables.

Graham is deathly silent, so Matilde takes the lead and murmurs, "It was…fine."

Fine? That doesn't sound very promising, but then again, Elara isn't very surprised either. District 5 is full of scientists and brains. Intellect is far more important than physical strength. No one needs to be able to lift heavy weights when the most sought after jobs require mental finesse.

Holding back a sigh, Elara says, "What stations did you go to, Matilde?" She glances over at Graham's downturned face, and decides that it would be best to speak with him when they are alone.

The orange haired girl shrugs, "Basic survival stations, mainly. Fire making, snares, edible plants…stuff like that."

Elara takes a sip of her drink, buying herself a bit of time before she carefully says, "Good. Those are important things to know. Harley and I have been thinking about your strengths, and we think you should use your intellect to your advantage."

She looks over at Harley, who is sitting next to her, and he shifts in his seat as he agrees, "You might be able to outlast the others. You're smart and resourceful."

Matilde looks down, and it's clear that she's wondering how her resourcefulness will really help her. District 5 tributes are very rarely confident about the Games. To uplift the conversation, Elara adds, "There are plenty of tributes who win the Games by staying out of the way. Let the others finish each other off. Keep improving your survival skills during training tomorrow. Don't get in anyone's way. The less they remember you exist, the easier it will be in the arena."

Matilde nods, and Elara sees Graham duck his head further down, avoiding eye contact with the others. She grips her fork tighter at the sight of him, swallowing back a wave of sadness, but doesn't say anything. She doesn't think it would be a good idea to draw attention to him when he so clearly wants to avoid it. But the moment dinner is finished and he jolts up from the table, Elara is quick to follow him to his room.

"Graham," she says softly before he can close his door. He pauses, looking over at her with wide eyes, and doesn't respond. She sighs.

"I think your strategy will have to be winning sponsors," she tells him, leaning against the threshold of his room and crossing her arms as she looks down at him. She watches him shift uncomfortably, and says, "You're a handsome young man with a great disposition and a smile that could charm even the grumpiest man. Now there's one last interview with Caesar the night before the Games, and it's a great chance to show the Capitol who you are."

He swallows tightly and mumbles, "I'm weak. I doubt I'll make it past the Bloodbath."

His doubts have her gripping her arms harder, trying to rein in her sorrow and her fear for him. She doesn't know this boy – she hadn't even met him before his name had been called in the Reaping – but he's too young to be a part of this bloodthirsty battle. It's a terrible thing to have to witness.

She chews on her lip for a moment before asking, "What happened during training today?"

The question makes him pause. He takes a few moments before muttering, "…I got pushed around."

She raises an eyebrow. "By who?"

His response makes her blood run cold.

"…District 1 tributes."

Swallowing thickly, Elara nods. District 1. She's not surprised. District 1 is a Career district, and its tributes this year are older and more prepared for the Games than Graham will ever be. Like many Career districts, they've been trained in defense and weaponry since their early years, and no doubt saw Graham as a prime target to unleash their frustration and show off their skills. The Career tributes often use districts like 5 to inflict fear into the others, but in past years, there were other reasons behind their aggression towards her tributes too.

It isn't exactly a little-known fact that Gloss Augustine and Elara Winston are friends. There have been rumors flying around the Capitol for years now that their friendship actually goes deeper than it appears on the surface, but no one's ever gotten actual evidence. Still, even the mere rumors that there is a sense of comradery between the Victors from 1 and 5 have occasional consequences during the Games. It doesn't happen every year, but sometimes Elara has noticed that the tributes from District 1 will specifically target the ones from 5. She assumes it has to do with a sense of pride and superiority, as if they're trying to say that no one from their district could ever care for someone from hers.

Elara swallows thickly before cautious saying, "Keep to the survival stations tomorrow. Avoid the Careers as much as you can. If you see them coming towards you, go to a different station. Graham – " she waits until he looks up before continuing, "I've been doing this for a long time now. It's not uncommon for the Careers to target other tributes before the Games even start. Just stick to yourself, maybe make a few friends. Allies are immensely helpful."

He nods sullenly, and Elara heaves a sigh. "Get some rest. We'll talk more about this during breakfast."

With that, she closes the door, feeling even worse than she had before. She considers going to her room, but her mind is whirring too quickly for her to be able to relax, so she heads up to the roof and hopes that Gloss is there, too. They usually meet there during the Games. It's the most secure place for them. There are no cameras, and the blustering wind allows them to talk about whatever they want, without consequence, because it interferes with the mics. He isn't there when she arrives, though, so Elara just sighs and walks to the railing, leaning against it as she looks out over the city that she's come to know so well during the last eight years.

Some Victors are lucky. They get to return to their homes and they only have to come to the Capitol during the Games. Victors like Johanna and Haymitch, who don't have anyone that Snow can threaten them with, don't have to go through the same brand of horrors that many of the others do. They have their own horrors to contend with: the loneliness, the bitterness of being alive when their families and friends are long gone. Elara sometimes wishes that she could exchange her suffering for theirs, but then she remembers Amelia, and Gloss, and Cashmere, and even though the latter two can take care of themselves, she still feels the need to protect them.

It's funny, sometimes, when she thinks about how much she's grown to care for the District 1 Victors. She never imagined that she would form such a close relationship with the brother and sister duo. But all Victors, regardless of their home district, share a sense of solidarity. They all suffer in their own way, and once you reach the status of Victor, the other things that had separated you before – the pride of your district, the petty differences of your upbringing – they all fade away. They don't matter anymore, after you win the Games. You realize that, in a way, they never did.

She jumps in surprise when two arms cage her against the railing and the hard press of a familiar body leans against hers. It takes her only a moment to recognize the shift of cologne. He's arrived.

They don't say anything to each other for a long time. Gloss just stands there, looking out into the city streets below. The streets are lined with Capitolites celebrating the oncoming Games with their usual vigor. They love this time of year. They live for it. It's almost ironic, how much life spreads through their hearts as children are forced to give up their own lives. It makes a bitter smile coil over her mouth.

She mutters, "Graham is going to die. There's nothing I can do to stop it."

She's not sure why she brings it up. Maybe because she can't stop thinking about it. Maybe because she knows how much it will haunt her, after it's all said and done. The young face of the thirteen year old boy will be a hard one to forget.

Behind her, Gloss sighs and wraps his arms around her, pulling her back against him. In her ear, he whispers, "It's not easy getting a young tribute. Remember last year?"

Last year. Yes, she remembers. District 1 had a fourteen year old girl volunteer for the Games. It's almost unheard of in the Career districts to have a tribute so young. Usually, there are plenty of other volunteers jumping at the chance to bring pride to their home. Once a volunteer steps forward, no one else can take their place. The girl had been utterly confident – to the point of her own demise. She lasted about halfway through the Games before the other Careers turned on her, deciding to remove the weakest link before it could pose a problem.

Elara turns her head into his neck and twines their fingers together. She knows that her current situation isn't one that the other Victors are blind to. They've all dealt with this before. It's never easy. It hadn't been easy for him, either, when he had to watch his tribute meet a particularly blood death at the hands of her supposed allies.

Gloss is very good at pretending to be strong and fearless, but she remembers the way he'd trembled against her the moment they were alone and he could take down his defenses. She had held him right here on this roof, hoping to give him what little comfort she could. Her own tributes had died right at the start of the Games last year, before the Bloodbath had even ended. At least they had met a quick death. Certainly quicker than that fourteen year old girl from District 1.

"I shouldn't complain," she begins, but Gloss just shakes his head.

In a far lighter voice, he jokes, "Complaining is what you're good at, Winston."

She's surprised at the joking lilt of his tone, and chuckles against him. He seems pleased that he's made her laugh – that he's distracted her, even if only for a moment – and he pulls her closer to rest his chin against her head.

"…Glimmer and Marvel were talking about him during dinner," he informs her in a grave voice, and the distraction of their lighthearted moment comes to a swift end. "I think they have a grudge against our friendship."

Friendship. What an amusing little word that is. Elara glances up at him with a raised eyebrow and drawls, "I think the entirety of Panem has a grudge against our _friendship."_ She says the word wryly, in her familiar sarcastic tone.

He grins down at her and chuckles, "I don't know why they care so much. All the Victors are friends – well except maybe Johanna."

She hums in dry agreement, and then smirks as she looks out over the city. In a playful voice, she tells him, "They're just jealous that I get to hang around with _Gloss Augustine,_ the most prized bachelor in the country." She throws him an amused look over her shoulder and he laughs.

Turning her around to face him, he edges closer and murmurs, "I think it's the other way around, actually. I doubt there's a woman alive whose more desired than you, Elara."

Her eyebrow jolts up as his hands come to rest on her hips, and before she knows it, he's pulling her into his chest with a look blazing through his eyes. It's a look she knows quite well by now. She grins at him.

"Oh, I don't know about that," she tells him as he starts dropping kisses to her neck. Craning her head back and threading her fingers through his hair, Elara whispers, "Though I do think we'd shock the Capitol if we were ever allowed to be together in public."

He pauses at this, and pulls back slightly. Lifting a hand to cup her cheek, Gloss looks down at her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. It looks vaguely like yearning, but Elara purposefully doesn't try to read further into it. Her heart is already on thin enough ice as it is, wherever he's concerned. No need to make it suffer even more.

He sighs. His breath tumbles against her. His touch is far gentler than most would imagine, upon first looking at his hulking frame and muscular body. The softer side of him, the one he very rarely shows the rest of the world, is one of the main reasons why she loves him so much.

She had seen it from the very beginning, when he'd taken her to his apartment all those years ago and gently introduced her to the world of intimacy. That night had been awkward for them both, but she couldn't have asked for a better person to be her first. Everything about him that night had been careful and ardent. She had seen a side of him that she hadn't known existed, but it's a side that she's seen many, many times since then.

"…One day," he whispers to her, and her heart clenches with the ferocity of her want. One day – what a beautifully tragic promise. Perhaps that day will come, when they're old and grey and Snow no longer needs them in the ways he needs them now. That is, if they even make it that long. If they're able to weather the continuous storm of their hidden relationship for decades longer. If they don't get so tired and exhausted and drained from the immeasurable, lonely nights that they decide to stop this undefined relationship before it can devour the last of their hope.

They stare at each other, both thinking the same thoughts. Both wondering if that day will ever come.

Elara reaches out for him and he goes to her, and together they just stand there on the rooftop, trapped in an embrace that they wish didn't have to end. And as she grips him tightly and buries her face against his chest, she murmurs back, "One day…"

He holds her tighter, as if he's trying to solidify the words against their skin and their hearts and their minds – as if he's trying to dispel the hopelessness that has crept up between them like weeds sprouting from an untended garden.

One day is all they can hope for, but hope is such a fickle thing.


	5. You are a bolt of lightning in a snare

**Chapter Five | You are a bolt of lightning in a snare,**

_"It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;_

_Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be."_

_2.2, 118-119 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_A month after their initial night together, Elara finds herself in Gloss's bed again. She honestly doesn't know if it had been an accident or not. When he had heard that she was in the Capitol at the same time as him, Gloss had invited her to grab a few drinks with him. They were both a little tipsy. She can't remember exactly how this happened, but…she likes it. Being with him. She almost feels like she shouldn't, but she does._

_Upon her very reluctant agreement with President Snow a month or so ago, Elara's been with far more men than she ever thought possible in only one month's time. It's strange and horrifying how much she's changed since her first night in a client's bed. She's not the same innocent youth that she'd been before. She hasn't been since she had stepped out of the arena._

_When Gloss wakes up and realizes that she's in his bed, he doesn't comment on it. He probably doesn't even remember much of last night. Or so she thinks._

_"Morning," he grumbles with a wide yawn, throwing his arms up over his head and stretching. The sheet that's covering them shudders down a bit, revealing the toned and very muscular chest that she's getting more and more familiar with._

_He's so blasé about the matter that Elara sarcastically drawls, "Why yes, I'm in your bed and we're both naked. I don't remember how that happened, do you?"_

_He chuckles as if this happens all the time for him (she really hopes it doesn't) and responds with a sleepy shrug. "Dunno. My memories are always fuzzy when I drink vodka. Why – is that a touch of shame I hear in your voice, Winston?"_

_She sends him an unimpressed glower. "Shame isn't quite the right word for it," she quips, sitting up and searching for her clothes. Gloss smirks._

_She tries not to look at him. Yes, she's seen more naked men than she cares to admit this past month, but she still feels uncomfortable at the thought of nudity. And Gloss – well, he's a very fine specimen. She doesn't want him to think that she's a complete prude, but she also doesn't want to come across as the total opposite either._

_Elara isn't sure whether she wants to impress him, or just ensure that he doesn't make fun of her for her lack of experience in these matters. As she wiggles to the edge of the bed and grapples with her shirt, he makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Annoyed at him, she glares over her shoulder, opening her mouth to tell him to shut up, but the moment she gets a good eyeful of him, her words die on her tongue._

_In the light of morning, Gloss Augustine is incredibly gorgeous. It occurs to her that she hasn't actually looked at him properly yet. The first morning, he had to leave very early to catch his train back to District 1, and she was far too sleepy to take notice of him after muttering out a brief goodbye. But now…well._

_As he sits up in bed with the sheets slung low to his hips, Gloss's tanned skin is on full display. Perhaps it's just his muscular physique, but he makes the room seem small. His broad shoulders boast at the fitness training he's undergone in his home district, and with his mussed up hair and hazel eyes, he creates an image that any woman would drool over. And – he's smirking widely at her, as if he knows exactly what she's thinking. She really hopes not._

_"Cat got your tongue, Winston?" he drawls, and purposefully raises his arms over his head in a seemingly casual position. He blinks at her with very amused eyes. She's not positive, but she suspects that he's deliberately flexing his biceps._

_She makes a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat and doesn't respond, settling for a roll of her eyes as she turns back to quickly slip her shirt over her wiry frame. Honestly, she can't put her clothes on fast enough. She will never admit it to anyone, but she feels a bit lacking next to his incredible good looks._

_Sure, she's pretty enough. Snow would never have put her into this business – as he calls it – if she wasn't. But she's never been particularly busty. Her skin is a little paler than average because of the lack of sunlight in District 5. She's not what one might call a classical beauty. She is unconventionally pretty – all sharp angles and wiry limbs – and her stylists often complain about her auburn hair and how it never seems to be able to decide whether it wants to be red or brown._

_She's definitely not the type of woman a man like Gloss Augustine would go for. Then again, it isn't as if he's 'going' for her anyhow. She's always been a realist. Her common sense has kept her on her feet all this time, and she's not about to throw it to the wind. Her heart is racing simply because she hadn't expected to wake up next to him this morning, and she's blushing because…well, because who wouldn't blush in the face of Gloss's nude glory?_

_Nude glory – now that's a new one. She really needs to get out of here. Before she can get up, though, Gloss beats her to it._

_He's still smirking when he goes to stand, totally unconcerned about the fact that he's not wearing a single stitch of clothing, and drawls, "How do you like your eggs?"_

_Elara stares at him in shock – then belatedly realizes that she's staring at a very naked version of him and her face gets as red as her hair. Gloss purses his mouth to stop himself from bursting out into laughter. She sees it and glowers at him._

_"Excuse me?" she bites back, not nearly as unconcerned as he apparently is. She's still not wearing underwear. They seem to have disappeared on her._

_He just laughs at her and strolls over to his dresser, where he pulls out a pair of briefs and casually slips them on. Elara turns away to give him a bit of privacy, not that he needs it. Truthfully, the action is more for her than for him, and he seems to know that._

_His tone is laughing when he quips, "Your eggs, Winston. For breakfast. Or am I just your latest conquest and you're over me?" He smirks, and she huffs._

_"I was never into you to begin with," she mutters, and then says, "And I think the term 'conquest' is being a little dramatic, don't you?"_

_He smirks. "I guess we'll find out, won't we?" he asks._

_She's about to ask him what on earth he even means by that when he suddenly leans down to pick something up off the floor. The sight of her underwear dangling from his fingers makes her blush brightly, and he laughs aloud at the sight she makes._

_"Looking for these?" he wonders slyly, twirling them in the air like they're some sort of prize. To say that she really doesn't care for his teasing is a blatant understatement._

_"Give," she orders, as if speaking to a dog. Gloss raises an eyebrow._

_Deciding to be difficult just for the hell of it, he drawls again, "Sunnyside or over easy?"_

_Elara glares. She doesn't know why he wants her to eat breakfast with him so badly, but in order to preserve what little dignity she has left, she grinds out, "Scrambled," just to be stubborn._

_He doesn't seem to mind. With a smirking shrug, Gloss turns to the bedroom door and calls, "Scrambled it is!"_

_He brings her underwear with him, which makes Elara so frustrated she could scream._

_"Gloss!" she shouts, abruptly giving into the desire as she vaults herself off the bed to follow. She shuffles into the kitchen awkwardly, dragging her shirt down as far as it will go as she steps onto the tiled floor. Gloss takes one look at her and laughs uproariously. He's so busy laughing that he doesn't stop Elara from snatching her underwear out of his hands. She pushes herself behind the counter to slide them on with an annoyed glower._

_"Wow," he laughs, running a hand through his hair. He snickers at her and says, "I should keep you around just for the amusement. I haven't laughed this hard in ages."_

_She rolls her eyes and shoves him. The hard push barely makes him budge, but he still smirks at the attempt._

_As Elara helps herself to a glass of orange juice and Gloss starts making breakfast, she finds that the awkwardness she'd felt earlier vanishes. Gloss is strangely easy to talk to. Not that she's ever been intimidated by him, per se, but he's built up a reputation since his Games. She always assumed that he's a typical Career Victor, who adores the Capitol and has a bit of a superior mindset regarding the other Victors. But, as they fall into a conversation about their homes, Elara realizes that she is wrong about him._

_He's…nice. In his own way. He does have a penchant for occasionally making fun of people, but then again so does she. They actually make a half decent pair as they sit down and start eating, and Elara is definitely taken by surprise by this. He's not what she had expected._

_She's not, either. Though Elara Winston had only just recently won her Games a few months back, Gloss has since assumed that she is just as sarcastic and biting as she is in interviews. And it's true, she is very sarcastic, but her dry wit is something he finds himself enjoying immensely, especially when they randomly get onto the subject of Caesar Flickerman's latest hair color and she says something about how it reminds her of moldy bread. He nearly chokes on his water at that comment, which makes her grin wolfishly at him, and –_

_He doesn't know what it is, exactly. Maybe the way the sunlight turns her hair into spun copper, or the blue eyes that flash into his with a subtle mischief that he finds addicting, but Gloss actually finds himself yearning to know more about her._

_It's…well. He's not sure what it is, but he likes it._

* * *

The training sessions pass by far too quickly for Elara's liking. It's selfish of her, honestly. A large part of her is worried because her tributes need more time to prepare. They're not ready for the Games. Maybe they never will be – maybe no one ever is. But a larger part of her is anxious for another reason entirely.

They're on borrowed time, her and Gloss. She knows she'll see him again after the Games are finished, but it could be months before their schedules overlap. She can't even remember the last time they'd been able to sneak into his apartment for a proper night together. Well actually that's a blatant lie. She remembers it as if it were yesterday. She can even recall the ridiculously romantic music he'd jokingly put on before she had told him to cut it out. He hadn't had much of a chance to keep up with his jokes before she had him on the bed, and by then, he couldn't have denied her even if he wanted to.

Anyway – they're on borrowed time. Every day that passes is a day that she will mourn and celebrate simultaneously, once she returns to the limbo of District 5 and tries to remember, in as much clarity as she can, exactly how it feels like when he kisses her.

Despite these morose thoughts though, Elara and Gloss both have other commitments. When do they not? When they aren't mentoring children during the Games season, they're dealing with clients and photoshoots and interviews in the Capitol. Their love affair, or whatever it is, is something that must be pushed to the side. They don't always have the nights to themselves, even here in the Tribute Center. It isn't as if she can just waltz down to the District 1 suite, march past the tributes and stylists and escorts, and hop into his bed. No one can know that they have this type of relationship, even though she's sure some of them suspect.

Sometimes, when they're able to, they camp out on the roof for most of the night, talking and dozing until the sun comes up and they are forced to return to their floors before anyone notices they're gone. Sometimes they can't even do that, because the rooftop isn't always empty, and they have to make up halfhearted excuses to the other Victors as to why they've arrived there, together. Not that the other Victors really care. They're probably the only ones in Panem who know about Elara and Gloss's taboo relationship and don't give a shit.

In any case, since tonight is the last night before the Games start, they're both much too busy with their tributes to steal even a few seconds together. Elara and Harley do what they can to prepare their tributes for their final interviews with Caesar, but ultimately it's all on them. Elara isn't worried about Matilde; the girl is confident enough to get up on stage and follow the strategy they've planned out. But Graham…

Elara can tell he's nervous. It doesn't take a genius to see that his hands are shaking and his eyes are frightened. The strategy that her and Harley have developed for him is simply to charm the Capitol as best as he can and secure sponsors, but she isn't sure if he'll be able to pull it off. She's worried.

At seven o'clock, the tributes and their mentors gather in the long hallway outside of the stage, where Caesar Flickerman's voice can be heard as he introduces the show. Matilde looks elegant in a simple blue dress that off sets her eyes and makes her pale skin look luxurious. She's got her chin up and her eyes are blazing with determination. Harley nods approvingly at her when she steps into the hallway.

Behind her, Graham stumbles over dressed in smart looking suit. The lapels are glittery black, and the bowtie he's wearing is blue to match Matilde's dress. He'd look wonderful, if not for his ghostly complexion and shaking figure. Elara exchanges a look with Harley and heads over to him, intent on trying to buck up his courage as much as possible.

She pulls him aside and quietly asks, "How do you feel?"

It's a stupid question, but she wants to hear him say it.

Graham shudders, "…Scared."

She grasps his shoulder tightly and catches his eye.

"Why?"

This time, he looks a little annoyed at her. His tone is impatient when he responds, "I'm one of the weakest tributes here."

She raises an eyebrow at him and decides to take a tougher approach when she drawls, "So what? Caesar isn't going to care. He's interviewed dozens of thirteen year olds before. All you have to do is show that crowd why you're different than all the others."

He frowns mightily at her and mumbles, "I'm no different from them at all."

To be honest, Elara's at the end of her rope with him. He isn't even trying. She just wants to help as much as she can, but he doesn't even seem to care. With a sigh, she takes a moment to rein in her impatience and leans down to his level to solemnly say, "You are different. You're smart. You want to be an engineer, right? Design electrical circuits for District 5? Do you really think that any of those other tributes could even tell you what a circuit board is?"

Sighing, he wonders, "How will that help?"

Her eyes flash. "Because, Graham, it will show the Capitol that you have goals. That when you win these Games, you're going to go on and become the greatest engineer Panem's ever seen. It will make them want to invest in you. You just have to be confident and prove to them that you're worth sponsoring."

Swallowing thickly, he asks, "…How do I do that?"

Elara pauses, then murmurs, "Show them your loyalty." When he gives her a confused look, she explains, "Tell them about how District 5 powers the entire Capitol, and tell them how you proud you are to live right next door to the Coriolanus 9."

Graham sullenly reminds her, "But I don't live next door to it. I live in the – "

"I know where you live," she interrupts with a sigh. "That doesn't matter. What matters is that you're confident and charming. It's not hard, Graham. All you have to do is smile. Just…" she wrinkles her nose thoughtfully and tells him, "just think of Caesar as your grandfather."

Graham just mumbles, "I never knew my grandfather."

Elara suddenly wants to pull out her hair. She turns him to face her and firmly says, "Your father then. Graham, please just try."

He frowns but nods, and Elara gestures back to the line, where the tributes and their mentors are waiting. Most of them haven't even noticed Elara pulling Graham aside. They're too busy giving last minute advice to their kids. As she starts walking back to where Harley and Matilde are waiting, though, her eyes clash with Gloss's, who is watching her carefully.

He gives her a questioning look, to which she purses her mouth and sighs. Her silent answer makes his eyes flash with barely detectable concern. For her, mainly, though she's sure he doesn't enjoy watching her young tribute break down in front of everyone. They don't have time for much else, though, before Caesar is announcing the District 1 female tribute, a girl by the name of Glimmer, and Gloss turns around to say a few final words to her before she flounces onto the stage in her short pink dress.

The interviews go on without a hitch. District 1 is, as usual, bursting with confidence. Elara watches the screen thoughtfully, studying the tributes as they go on stage. District 2 is much the same – confident and ready to win. By the time it's District 5's turn, Elara gives Matilde a pat on the back and the girl heads off to the stage. As always, the crowd doesn't cheer quite as loudly for District 5 as it does with the Career districts, but it doesn't seem to bother Matilde. She is full of grace as she walks to where Caesar is waiting.

Elara shoots Harley a look, and he nods at her.

"Now, my dear," Caesar begins to say as they take their seats, "I hear that you're from a family of scientists. Is that true?"

Matilde smiles, "Yes. Both of my parents are hydroelectrical scientists who work in the Grid."

Raising an eyebrow in interest, Caesar wonders, "The Grid?"

Matilde nods, "It's a neighborhood in District 5 where most of the scientists and engineers live. It's also where the power plants are located."

"Ah!" Caesar chuckles, as if he's just learned something of immense importance. Elara rolls her eyes. Anyone with a brain could tell you what the Grid is, even someone who isn't from District 5.

Leaning forward, Caesar asks, "And what did your family think when your name was chosen at the Reaping? Are they proud? Nervous?"

Matilde pauses a moment, clearly hesitant to say what Elara's sure she wants to. Any parent would be horrified. Instead of harping on that, though, the girl just tells him, "They're confident that I can win."

Harley grunts in approval. That was a good response. The crowd clearly thinks so, too, because they cheer for her.

Caesar laughs, "Wonderful! And what skills are you bringing into the arena, Matilde?"

The girl smiles wryly, "Well, Caesar, I'm quick on my feet and I'm a good problem solver. My mentors seem to think that I'm very resourceful."

The last sentence makes Caesar chuckle, "Ah yes. Elara Winston and Harley Balstrod. They were also quite cunning in their Games. It must be a District 5 thing, right folks?" The cheers heighten at the mention of the Victors, much to Elara's annoyance. This interview isn't about her or Harley. It's about getting sponsors for Matilde.

The girl knows what she's doing though, when she cuts in to say, "Well, our education system is really top notch, Caesar. We value intellect, which means that I'm definitely equipped to deal with any challenge that come my way."

Caesar eats it up. He stands, bringing her with him, and raises her hand into the air. "Matilde Paynor from District 5!" And when Matilde makes her way off the stage, he calls, "And now, also from District 5, let's hear it for Graham Tweed!"

Before the boy can step forward, Elara grabs his shoulders and firmly tells him, "Remember, just try your best to charm them. You can do this, Graham."

He gives her a shaky nod, but thankfully, he isn't shaking when he steps onto the stage. No, but he is clearly nervous. Elara crosses her arms and watches with a tight expression.

"Graham," Caesar says, gesturing for him to sit, "you're a handsome young man, aren't you? What do you like to do, hmm? Any hobbies?"

The boy stiffens at the question and flounders. Elara has a feeling that his physical reaction would have been the same no matter what question Caesar had asked. She swallows and prays that he thinks up something to say. He's only got two minutes.

After a brief pause, Graham stutters, "Well, I like to draw."

It isn't exactly the most useful talent. Not like sword fighting or throwing daggers or weaving nets. Caesar presses his face into an interested expression, but Elara can tell that he's not really as interested as he appears to be.

Before he can ask something else, Graham pips up with a slightly stronger, "I draw designs for the power plants. I want to be an engineer and make electrical circuit boards."

The sudden explanation seems to throw Caesar off, but he recovers quickly and asks, "Circuit boards? Now that's a new one! And what do these circuit boards do, Graham?"

It seems to be the right question, and Graham apparently has the right answer, for he sits up and eagerly says, "Well they do all sorts of things. They operate the power plants, and they power the whole district – and the Capitol, too."

Caesar smiles indulgently at him. "Is that right? Well you have some big goals! I'm sure one day you'll get there, am I right folks?" People respond to Caesar's words with a loud exclamation, which seems to both frighten and uplift Graham simultaneously.

The rest of the interview goes well – far better than Elara expects. By the time Graham comes off the stage, Elara is so relieved that she's the one shaking this time.

"You did great," she tells him with a smile. "Go on up to the suite and rest. You've earned it."

He gives her a tiny smile and heads over to the elevator. Elara's still smiling when she looks up and sees Gloss and Cashmere ambling over to them.

"Hey, nice job," Cashmere says. "I hate these interviews. Glad they're over."

Gloss stands next to Elara. His arm brushes hers, but other than that, they don't touch. There are too many people here; too many tributes and mentors and stylists.

"He did a good job," Gloss murmurs to her, and she gives him a look of relief.

"I think I was as nervous as he was," she admits. He chuckles.

The lighthearted atmosphere doesn't last very long though. The Hunger Games start tomorrow, and even though Matilde and Graham did a decent job with their interviews tonight, it doesn't necessarily mean they'll get past the first day of the Games.

After a few minutes of chatting, Elara squeezes Gloss's hand briefly and tells the siblings, "We're gonna head up. See you in the viewing room tomorrow?"

They both nod at her and watch as her and Harley make their way to the elevators as well.

"You think she'll be alright?" Cashmere wonders quietly as Elara's figure disappears behind the sleek silver doors. There's a tinge of concern in her voice. It isn't easy getting such a young tribute.

Gloss pauses, but in a firm voice he responds, "She'll be fine. She's strong. That why I – " and then he cuts himself off, because he was about to say something that he really shouldn't.

Even if it's true, he's not allowed to love Elara Winston.

Cashmere just smirks over at him knowingly and scoffs, "Honestly, if I didn't like her so much myself, I'd tell you to stop acting like an idiot."

Gloss just chuckles and swings an arm over his sister's shoulders.

"Cash, you are seriously the most non-romantic person I've ever known. Besides, you've never needed a reason to call me an idiot."

Cashmere just scoffs at him and nudges him in the side with a sharp elbow.


	6. That burns with every pass of time

**Chapter Six | That burns the brighter with each pass of time;**

"_Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning;_

_One pain is lessened by another's anguish."_

_1.2, 45-46 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_It's been four months since that breakfast between Gloss and her. She hasn't seen him since, unless of course you count seeing his face on the TV screen or on Capitol Weekly's cover page. She doesn't. It's okay, though. Elara's glad. She doesn't want to rely on a District 1 Victor who she probably won't even see until the next Games. They live hundreds of miles away from each other and she doesn't need him anyway._

_It's just nice. Having someone. Being in someone's arms. It's nice to know that she can still feel something sincere. That the desire she occasionally has for him is not fake or exaggerated like it is for her clients._

_That's all there is to it. She knows he would never want more from her, and she doesn't even think she wants more from him either. Besides, it's not as if they ever could have more, so why bother thinking about it at all?_

_She tells herself that, but it doesn't work. When she's lying in a stranger's bed in the Capitol, waiting for her client to fall asleep so she can go home, she wishes she was in Gloss's bed. She tries to trick her mind into believing that she is. That she can smell his cologne and feel his body next to hers. That the arm thrown around her waist is his. That the moans which spill against her skin belong to him._

_She doesn't know, exactly, why she does it to herself. Maybe it's because he's the only person she's been with so far who has actually cared about making sure she's comfortable. That, in the two times they've been intimate, he's never treated her like some plaything that he owns. A part of her wishes she'd never gotten involved with him at all, because it only makes everything that much harder. She doubts that there is anyone in the Capitol who could ever live up to the standards he has set._

_Maybe that's why she finds herself standing outside of his apartment door, the next time she's in the Capitol and has a night to herself. Maybe that's why she knocks on it before she can stop herself._

_God, what is she doing? She doesn't even know if he's here or if he's in District 1. If he's not here, she's wasted a trip. And if he is…_

_She finds herself both hoping and berating herself simultaneously, even as the doorknob turns and Gloss appears on the other side. And – she just stares at him in total silence, suddenly not knowing what to say, or why she's here, or how he could possibly help._

_He looks understandably confused when he says, "…Winston? What are you doing here?"_

_Suddenly mortified, Elara stares at him in stricken silence and doesn't respond. She wishes she hadn't come. What had she been thinking? She's supposed to be realistic and grounded and here she is, going to him like this – and for what?_

_She can't answer his question because even she doesn't know why she's here. All she knows is that she really wants to see him again. He makes her feel safe in this great big city where she's all alone and hardly human._

_Gloss stares at her for a long moment, watching her open her mouth, then close it. The process repeats a few times until he grows impatient, grabs her wrist, and tugs her into his apartment. He tells himself it's because if someone sees them, the tabloids would go crazy and Snow would be furious, but the real reason is because in a way, he's missed her, too._

_It's probably silly. He barely knows her, and yet he rather likes what he does know. He likes her dry sarcastic drawl and he likes the sound of her voice in the mornings, when it's creased with sleep. He likes when she wears the color red because it makes her hair turn into fire, and he likes how confident she pretends to be, even though he knows that at least part of it is an act._

_He doesn't _like_ her, but he likes her well enough._

_As Gloss shuts the door behind them, Elara twists her fingers together and, without any preamble, blurts out, "Let's have sex."_

_His head turns so fast that his neck cracks and it makes him cringe, and Elara thinks he's cringing because of her impromptu suggestion and it makes her back up and nervously laugh, "Oh God. I mean, we don't have to. Only if you want. You can say no. Obviously."_

_Gloss rubs at his neck, stares at her, and laughs. He laughs. It takes Elara three seconds to forget why she's nervous and realize how aggravating she thinks he is. Apparently she'd forgotten that in the course of four months._

"_I wasn't expecting that," he chuckles, and walks into his kitchen, still snickering even as he opens a cabinet and pulls out a glass. She thinks he's blatantly ignoring her until he fills it with some kind of clear liquor and hands it over. Elara takes it warily and narrows her eyes at him._

"_Well?" she asks, leaning against the counter expectantly. Honestly, she doesn't care if he says no or not. Her pride would definitely smart a little bit, but it's not like she's somehow become emotionally attached to him. She hardly even knows him._

_Gloss's mouth twitches, like he's trying to rein in a smile._

"_Well what?" he teases, looking extremely amused._

_She thinks he might actually be the most stubborn man she's ever met. It's partially maddening, but there's definitely a part of her that finds him rather entertaining too. They're both pretty stubborn, after all._

_With an impatient expression, Elara puts the drink down and walks over to him. Gloss watches very carefully. There's a sliver of interest in his eyes, and it only grows when Elara leans against the counter next to him and says, "Gloss. Would you like to have sex with me. Yes or no."_

_His mouth twitches again. After a brief pause, he asks, "Is that a trick question?"_

_Rolling her eyes, Elara responds, "No, it's not. I'm being serious."_

"_Hmm." He rubs his jaw and studies her face for a long moment before asking, "Why?"_

_There's no nervousness in her now. Now, Elara is just impatient and slightly frustrated at his line of questions. Giving him a look, she drawls, "Does it matter? Maybe I want to practice."_

_He chuckles even though there's really nothing funny about the words. The thought of her 'practicing' her sex skills on him so that she can use them on her clients actually makes him feel a bit nauseous, but he doesn't let it show when he quips, "As long as you don't fall for me, Winston."_

_He feels relieved when she scoffs and adamantly mutters, "I won't." Another part him feels the tiniest shred of remorse and the slightest twinge of disappointment, though he's not sure where it's coming from or if he's just imagining it. He's Gloss Augustine. He doesn't care if the new Victor falls or him or not. Either way, it's not like it impacts him._

_With a nod, he waves his hand and says, "Alright then. Go on."_

_Go on? What does that even mean? Elara stands there with a raised eyebrow and a sarcastic look blazing in her eyes, and Gloss just smiles and waits for her to do something. He's not going to put in any effort – yet. She's the one that came to him, after all, not the other way around._

_He's so going to make her work for it._

_Elara has grown a lot in the last few months though. She's not nearly as inexperienced as Gloss remembers her to be during that first time, or even the second one. When she steps up to him and reaches up to lay her hands flat against his chest, there's an almost seductive look in her eyes that makes him shudder a little. And when she leans in and kisses him, pressing her body against the length of his, he doesn't pull away._

_He finds himself rather liking how she kisses him. There's a slow but smoldering way about her mouth, like her kiss is an inferno that is just building up. It hints that there is more to come, but doesn't give away all the secrets. Before he knows it, he's leaning in and kissing her back, hands reaching for her face as their breaths begin to shorten._

_He likes the way her body presses into his, too. She seems to fit perfectly against him. The way she has to crane her neck back so that her lips will reach his is oddly invigorating. He's not sure why. He's always been more attracted to fuller women with more meat on their bones, but she's thin and wiry and angular and it's hard to explain, but he thinks she's perfect._

_Or – maybe he's just suddenly interested in the act that she's willingly offering, and his mind is going a little sideways on him. It's definitely possible. All he knows is that he wants her closer, and as the fire burns brighter between them, he doesn't hesitate to make it happen._

_The tumble onto his bed somehow, tearing through his apartment with singular purpose. Once they begin to move together, Gloss looks down at her and she looks up at him and there's something in the air between them – an understanding of some kind – that makes them both smile._

_It's an understanding that will propel them into something neither of them is prepared for in this moment._

* * *

The morning of the Hunger Games, Elara and Harley send their tributes down to the hovercraft that will fly the twenty four children to the arena. There's little else to do for either of them but to give them a few confident words before they board. Elara squeezes Graham's shoulder and gives him a few hopeful remarks about potential sponsors that are interested, and he gives her a watery nod before stepping onto the plane.

As it lifts up, Elara sees Johanna lingering off to the side with her arms crossed. She walks over to her friend with a smile. Johanna opens her mouth to greet her when a smooth voice cuts in with a purred, "Elara, you're looking particularly lovely this morning."

Finnick Odair sidles over to the two women with a wide smirking expression. As usual during the Games season, he's got some sugar cubes in his hand. Apparently he likes stealing from horses.

Elara raises an eyebrow at him and drawls, "Can I help you, Finnick?"

His mouth curves higher. She likes to think that Finnick and her have an understanding. They're both courtesans in the Capitol and they're both in love with another Victor. Not that either of them have ever spoken about that. It's a taboo subject, even in Finnick's case.

Anyway, Finnick amuses her. He has a way of making every situation seem easier to bear. She likes him. Gloss doesn't. He thinks Finnick gets himself into more trouble here in the Capitol by being the flirt that he is. He thinks it's stupid of him.

With a heaving sigh, Finnick throws an arm around Elara's shoulders and leans in to murmur in his exaggerated, seductive voice, "I just thought I'd have some fun, that's all. See, I have this theory." He smirks down at her and holds up a sugar cube. She eyes it curiously – until Finnick pushes it against her lips. "That Gloss is in love with you, only he won't say it," he brushes over her lips with his thumb and watches her eat the sugar cube before finishing, "because he's afraid it might get you in trouble."

Elara rolls her eyes at him and nudges him off of her. "You're so full of it, Odair. Whether or not that's true, it's none of your business."

She doesn't need Finnick Odair, of all people, analyzing her relationship with Gloss.

Johanna pipes up then, so suddenly that Elara startles, having forgotten she'd been there to begin with. "Finnick, prepare to get your ass handed to you by one overprotective Career."

Confused at her words, Elara looks up – only to see Gloss ambling towards them. There's a look in his eyes as he stares Finnick down. Finnick just laughs in amusement, shoots Elara a wink, and doesn't stick around for whatever confrontation Gloss is imagining. Before the Career is able to get to their group, Finnick is already back inside, no doubt hunting for an elevator to take him up to safety.

Elara snickers. She can't help but feel a tiny bit amused. Finnick makes her laugh, especially when he decides to rile up her lover. Gloss is usually calm and collected, unless Finnick is around. Not that they've ever had a real problem with each other. Gloss just dislikes watching Finnick flirt with Elara, regardless of the fact that everyone knows it's just for fun.

"Really? You let him feed you a sugar cube?" he grumbles the moment he reaches her side. Elara bites her lip to rein in her laughter, and Gloss narrows his eyes at her.

"What?" she asks, snickering. "Any woman would dream of being hand fed by Finnick Odair – right Johanna?" She nudges the other Victor playfully, and the woman scoffs.

"Ugh," she scoffs, and walks away before she can be dragged any further into the conversation.

Gloss crosses his arms and incredulously asks, "So you represent Panem's population of women, now? That makes it all better, does it?"

Elara laugh aloud at him and pats him on the shoulder. His gaze isn't set with the same sternness that would tell her he's being serious. Something flickers in them – a certain undefined mischief – that makes her lean closer and tease, "If it makes you feel better, Gloss, you can feed me whatever you'd like later tonight." Her eyes flash with innuendo, and she smirks widely at him.

He immediately coughs, clearly not expecting her suggestion – or the vulgarity of it.

"You might just be the death of me, Winston," is all he says in response, and tugs her back into the building.

She laughs and quips, "I think you're far more handsome than Finnick Odair, but then I think I might be a little prejudiced. I have seen way more of you than I have of him, after all." She murmurs the last part, so quietly that only he can hear, and Gloss smirks.

"Well I'm really glad to hear _that,"_ he mutters to her, as they board the elevator that Cashmere has saved for them. The other District 1 Victor is waiting with an impatient look on her face – no doubt a direct reaction to her brother's hidden love life. They all crowd onto the elevator and Elara sends Cashmere a friendly nod as she stands next to her. The moment the doors slide shut, though, the lighthearted mood gets pulled under the ever-present worries that the Games season brings.

"You wanna go to the public viewing room?" Gloss asks Elara, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

The public viewing room is a room in the Tribute Center where all the mentors are able to sit and watch the Games together. They have the option of staying in their suites too, but many of them appreciate the solidarity that comes from being together as a unified group. The room is also equipped with refreshments and comfortable chairs, which certainly helps. Usually Elara would say yes to his query, but this year…

Her hesitant silence is answer enough. Gloss presses down the button for District 5 and tells her, "Your suite, then. Mind if Cash and I join?"

Elara sends him a grateful smile and responds, "Yeah. Of course."

Cashmere hooks her arm around Elara's but doesn't say anything. They have a strange friendship, but it's genuine. It hadn't started off on a high note, but it's gotten way better over the years. Together with Gloss, the three have always been a group of their own within the Victors. Elara is friends with many of the others too, but she feels most comfortable with them.

When they get to the District 5 suite, they all crowd onto the couch, where Ignatius, Olive, and Harley are already waiting. Caesar Flickerman is currently on screen, exciting the crowd for the imminent start of the Games. Elara sits in between Cashmere and Gloss, who throws an arm over the back of the couch in a seemingly casual manner that Elara immediately sees through. She doesn't say anything though, and just subtly edges closer into his side as she watches Caesar.

This sort of obvious deception is oftentimes the only way they can be together without actually being together. Olive and Ignatius assume, just as the rest of the Capitolites, that Gloss and Elara are simply good friends. Cashmere's presence beside them definitely helps to bolster the image.

After a few minutes of waiting, the Games begin with a bang. A computerized voice counts down the seconds, and then the tributes are bounding off their pedestals. Most of them head for the Cornucopia. Matilde follows suit, though she doesn't linger very long. She's fast and quick as she grabs a backpack and immediately changes course for the heavily wooded area surrounding them, but she gets distracted when she accidentally charges into none other than Katniss Everdeen.

The Girl on Fire, as Caesar has aptly named during the chariot parade, looks just as wary as Matilde. They stare at each other for a few seconds before Matilde jolts away, and Katniss thankfully allows it.

As for Graham…he doesn't even make it past the bloodbath. Elara sits on the edge of her seat, scanning the screen. She catches sight of him running towards the woods, but one of the Careers grabs him around the neck and slams him down before he can make it halfway there.

She had expected this. Wanted it even. A quick death is all he could have hoped for, regardless of the way she had mentored him. The youngest winner in Hunger Games history is Finnick Odair, having won his Games at age fourteen, and that had been a shock to everyone. The younger tributes rarely last long.

She's still shaken as she watches the District 1 tribute pummel him into the ground and slice his throat. His canon goes off immediately, though it is lost in a haze of other canons and the general hysteria unraveling before them.

Gloss grabs her hand tightly, rubbing his thumb against her skin. She grips him hard as she watches the life bleed out of Graham's eyes, but doesn't say a word. It isn't necessary. She had been prepared to witness this moment, but it doesn't make it any easier.

What must his family be thinking now, back in District 5? Surely they had prepared for his death too, and yet…no one can truly prepare for moment in which you lose someone so close to you. It is a ragged feeling that takes a lifetime to go away.

On her other side, Cashmere shifts closer in a silent display of comfort. Elara just tightens her grasp of Gloss's hand and holds her breath. She watches the Careers gather themselves and distribute weapons and food, eyeing Graham's killer with a blank expression.

The boy from District 1 is bloodied but uninjured. He sends his comrades a grin as the District 2 tribute tosses him a backpack stuffed with food items and medicines. He's the boy that Gloss and Cashmere spent the past week mentoring, but she knows that they don't feel any joy from watching their tribute turn into a killer. She knows that it brings back memories of a time where they were both in those shoes, mercilessly fighting for their lives.

She doesn't blame them for Graham's death. It would be unfounded. They are all suffering together – always the Victors suffer in their own way – and she knows that Gloss and Cashmere are not the same Careers that they perhaps once were, back in their Games. Their experiences with the Capitol and with President Snow have changed them just as it has changed all the others.

No one says a word as they watch the Games unfold. Allies are formed. The Careers set up camp around the Cornucopia. The other tributes disperse, some in groups, some on their own. Elara is surprised when Peeta Mellark teams up with the Careers, especially when he offers to help them hunt down Katniss. Though it isn't strange for district partners to turn against each other upon entering the arena, she hadn't expected that the star-crossed lovers would. As for Katniss Everdeen, she disappears into the forest, but the cameras let her go for now. They're too interested in watching the Careers plan out their strategy.

Matilde, too, is lost in the woods, apparently unimportant for now to the Capitol viewers.

Elara hopes it stays that way.


	7. Within your eyes, a moonlit prayer,

**Chapter Seven | Within your eyes, a seething moonlit prayer,**

"_Therefore pardon me,_

_And not impute this yielding to light love,_

_Which the dark night hath so discovered."_

_2.2, 104-106 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Gasping pants fill the apartment. Their skin glows with the faint sheen of sweat, and the air is heavy with an emotion that has slowly morphed into something resembling familiarity. Elara supposes they would have to be familiar with each other at this point. By now, she knows Gloss's body better than she knows her own._

_His fingers idle over her skin, spinning circles against her hip. Her frame is comfortably nestled against his, chin tucked into the crook of his shoulder. It strikes Elara that the last time she'd felt so at peace with the world had been the last time she was in his arms. The realization gives her mixed emotions. _

_She knows that she's not allowed to love him. She doesn't think it's gotten to that point anyway, but her brain still whispers warnings at her and plucks red flags into existence. Even this simple feeling of familiarity is a danger sign that blares at her and steals away the slices of peace that have surrounded them._

_Gloss exhales calmly, his chest evenly rising and falling as he regains his breath. The sheets have fallen down to their ankles, where they have twisted into a mess of unrecognizable fabric. Neither of them cares. Elara has abandoned the crisp feeling of awkwardness a long time ago. When it comes to Gloss, she no longer gets embarrassed over her nudity._

_This realization, too, comes as a sharp flag that makes her pause and look up at him. Eyes clouded with the remnants of pleasure that she is still spiraling down from, Elara quietly asks him, "Gloss…what are we doing?"_

_The question is in itself a conundrum. Quilted confusion and even subtle guilt parades over her skin like goosebumps. She frowns against his shoulder and listens to the sound of his heart, wondering when it had become such a familiar tone to her. _

_Gloss shifts a little, turning his head to look down at her. She turns to catch his eye, and for a long moment they just stare at each other silently, as if they are both testing the waters of emotion that seem to have randomly sprung up between them. But in truth, there is nothing random about the way she feels so at peace with him, and it confuses her._

_Does she like him a little more than she'd thought? Is she falling for him, despite constant reminders that she cannot?_

_There is something in his eyes as he looks down at her, studying the familiar crease of her brow and the wary expression on her face. She doesn't know it, but the same thoughts are thudding through him, too, dragging him into the depths of internal confusion. They seem to have finally reached a barrier that they have not yet broken down. It is a boundary that they have carefully avoided from the very beginning. To define their strange relationship would be to admit just how much they have come to care for each other. _

_Gloss brings her closer and turns his eyes to the ceiling. He exhales again – a long, slow breath that almost sounds like a sigh – before quietly responding, "…We're finding comfort in each other. Even Victors are allowed that."_

_Comfort? Yes, Elara supposes that he is right. She always feels ten times more comfortable with him than with anyone else. He has always been gentle with her. He's never asked anything of her. He's never assumed that she would go out of her way for him. And he's never treated her like a client to be bought or sold. Not like the other men she is forced to be with._

_It's the same for him, she hopes. She has never acted like the women he is made to please when he comes to the Capitol. Never asked anything of him that he wouldn't readily give. _

_Comfort – yes, that is a good word to describe it, but she thinks that it is only the shallow surface of their odd relationship. The comfort they feel with each other, the ease of their intimacy, the simple way they can banter back and forth even outside of the bedroom…surely there is more to it than that._

_Elara doesn't question it though. It would be foolish to call attention to the blank spaces of his words. Foolish still to allow herself to think that there is more to explain. It will only hurt her, in the end. Gloss in unattainable to her, and she to him. Victors are allowed some small comforts, but never more._

_Elara buries herself against him with a sigh, enjoying the way he pulls her closer. His muscles flex beneath his skin. She feels his lips brush against her forehead as their legs tangle with each other. She thinks she's never felt safer than when he's got her shucked up against him, holding her close._

_With a soft sigh, she breathes, "You make me feel very comfortable."_

_He doesn't respond for a while. It's okay – she doesn't need a response. Gloss just lays there with her pressed against him, thinking back on all the times they've been in this very same position throughout the last six months. It hadn't been planned or orchestrated. A better way to describe their relationship is that it had been purely accidental. He never would have guessed that they would be together so many times after that first run-in with her in that bar months before. Elara Winston has rather snuck up on him._

_At first it had been sex and nothing more. He had reasoned with himself that, as long as he didn't feel anything but desire towards her, that there would be nothing wrong with this particular indulgence. They'd spoken about it plenty of times before – how exhilarating they make each other feel, and how sex is the backbone of their union. How there can't be anything else. He had agreed with her, but now…_

_Now he wonders if perhaps they were too idealistic. He wonders if it is even possible to be intimate with someone so many times and _not_ feel something more than lust._

_Turning towards her, Gloss gathers her closer and presses his chest against hers, sighing out in sleepy peace as the dim light of midnight plucks over their entwined bodies._

_In a very quiet voice, he whispers, "You make me feel comfortable too."_

_Elara's eyes flutter open, and they stare at each other for a long moment that seems to recede into forever. Then, silently, she leans in and presses her mouth to his, and they share a kiss that surpasses the outer shell of their confessions. A kiss that makes the word 'comfort' fall very short indeed._

_Elara isn't blind to her own emotions. She is ever realistic about where she stands with Gloss Augustine, but even though she knows that it is impossible to love him the way a large part of her wants to, she cannot help but fall ever deeper with each pass of his lips against hers._

_Their mouths seem to whisper words that their voices do not utter, that their ears will not hear spoken aloud for many long years to come, but…_

_It is enough._

* * *

It becomes startlingly clear that, the more time that passes in the arena, the more the Capitol seems to adore Katniss Everdeen. It's all the sponsors talk about, whenever Elara makes her rounds among them. For the first time in years, District 12 seems to have a fighting chance.

Elara's been in this position before, many times over. She's been a mentor for eight years now. She is only too used to the feeling of uselessness when it comes to being able to help her tributes. Matilde is smart, though – far smarter than the others. She keeps to herself, foraging and stealing from other tribute's food supplies to make sure she doesn't starve. If it isn't for Katniss Everdeen's rise to fame, Matilde might actually be able to win. But though Elara wishes that she could bring home a Victor, a large part of her doesn't feel very hopeful.

Matilde has a strategy, but that strategy keeps her away from the public eye. She works behind the scenes and this doesn't allow her to forge ties with the sponsors, who hardly even remember she's there. To them, Matilde is just that girl from District 5 who doesn't have any real skills and therefore isn't worth investing in. Elara has to go above and beyond to procure sponsors for her, using tactics that graze the blurry lines of morality.

Well she's never been the most straight-lined person alive.

She stumbles back to the Tribute Center late one evening, sore and tired. She's successfully secured a rather wealthy sponsor for Matilde, though her methods hadn't been typical. Well – she's sure they were typical for some. Finnick Odair undoubtably uses the same tactics when the situation calls for it.

Her thighs are aching when she pulls herself to the elevators and hits the button for her floor. She drags her fingers through her auburn hair, trying to smooth it out as she thinks back upon her evening. The man she had been with hadn't been the worst she's experienced, but he hadn't been gentle either. They were both using each other for their own ends, and that type of situation rarely ever calls for any emotion besides a frantic drive for satisfaction. He'd gotten his pleasure, and Elara got the sponsorship that Matilde needs.

It's about one in the morning by the time she heads to her room. There's no one else awake. All the lights are off save the one in her bedroom – something that immediately gives her pause, as she distinctly remembers it being off when she had left that afternoon.

She lingers for a moment near the closed door. When she quietly pushes it open, the sight that greets her on the other side is one that doesn't particularly surprise her.

"You shouldn't be here," she immediately hisses, quickly shutting the door behind her lest she wake up anyone else in the suite. If anyone were to see Gloss Augustine in her bedroom at this hour, the rumors would be impossible to stop.

But Gloss just leans back against the headboard of her bed and eyes her figure silently. There's a knowing gleam in his gaze that makes her distinctly uncomfortable. It doesn't take a genius to figure out where she's been, with her disheveled appearance. He can see the hint of bruises forming over her collarbone and fury sets in at the sight of them.

Elara sets her shoulders back and raises her chin stubbornly, staring back at him in a challenging way, as if she's daring him to call her out on the obvious reason for her disappearance.

Gloss sets his jaw and grumbles, "You were gone for hours. I was worried."

She knows he's telling the truth. She can see it in his eyes, the way they blaze out his concern. She can also see anger there, and discomfort, and despair, and a blend of other emotions that frankly, she's far too tired to figure out at this moment.

Heaving a sigh, Elara tosses her purse to the floor and starts shuffling out of her dress, intent on getting into the shower and washing away the night. As she struggles with the zipper, she says, "You should go back to your floor before someone realizes you're here."

It's dangerous being together in this place. The whole building is bugged. Someone could be listening in on their conversation even now.

Gloss doesn't respond. Elara's about to tell him to stop being stubborn when suddenly he's right behind her, pushing her hands out of the way to help her with the zipper. It's caught on some of the fabric, no doubt a result of the hasty way she'd thrown her clothes back on before hightailing it back to the Tribute Center. Gloss probably realizes this, but he doesn't say a single thing as he tugs the zipper down and silently shucks the dress off of her figure. As it pools at her feet, he slowly turns her around to face him.

He turns his attention to the line of bruises at her collarbone. Whoever she'd been with, the man seemed to have enjoyed marking her flawless skin. The mere thought makes him so furious he can hardly breathe.

His eyes blaze into hers and some of that fury leaks out into his voice when he asks, "You needed sponsors that badly?"

There's a slight note of judgement in his voice that makes Elara immediately stiffen, caught between shame and the justification of her actions – between her love of him and her duty to her tribute. Nothing is easy.

Pulling away from him, Elara snarks, "District 5 never makes it this far into the Games and you know it. So yes, I did." She swallows thickly and adds in a slightly softer tone, "I didn't plan it, Gloss."

It's true. She hadn't gone to find sponsors with the intent of selling her body for the night. She had just picked a bad person to try to convince, that's all. A man who had seen her and had immediately made her into a conquest. Elara Winston is an attractive prospect to most of the men in the Capitol.

The explanation doesn't seem to make Gloss feel any better though. He purses his mouth and inquires in a clipped tone, "Did you get the money you needed?"

The judgement is still there, like a dull fire that burns behind his eyes. It makes Elara uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of it. He of all people knows how it feels to be sold for the night. He's been there before too. It isn't as if she had wanted things to go in the direction they did. It had ended up being her only option, in the end. No one is interested in sponsoring the unknown tribute from District 5.

Elara doesn't answer him. Instead, she sends him a frown and turns towards the bathroom, where she longs to get into the shower and wash off that man's touch. Gloss doesn't let her get away from him so easily though. He follows her into the bathroom and, the moment the door closes, he tugs her into his arms.

There's something uniquely blissful about being pressed against his muscular frame. She immediately feels protected and safe from the whims of the Capitol, as if he could shield her from all the horrors that await them. She knows he can't, not fully, but Elara still melts against him anyway because he makes her feel as though everything is going to be okay.

"I don't like the thought of you with those men," he mutters into her hair, and tightens his holds of her as if he thinks she's going to be torn away from him.

Elara sighs. His words are dangerous. They make her heart beat loudly in her ears. They make her yearn for him in ways she knows she should not.

"Gloss…" she starts, but trails off because she doesn't really know what to say. She knows what she _wants_ to say, but the three taboo words that they've skirted around for so long get stuck in her throat like they always do. It's okay, though, because he seems to know exactly what she's thinking. It is a language that only lovers know; a silent exchange in which words are needless.

He doesn't speak as he turns his head and kisses her cheek. His lips are soft and gentle as they capture her lips. She could cry at the strength he presses into her, as if he's trying to impart some of himself into her. Being with him, in any capacity, is such a stark difference compared to the other men she's forced to lay with. Where they destroy, he heals.

When he starts peeling back the layers of his clothes, Elara murmurs, "You shouldn't stay, Gloss. What if someone realizes you're gone?"

But he just shakes his head and grumbles, "I'll make sure I'm back before they find out." And, because she wants him so damn much, always, Elara doesn't complain any further as he takes her hand and leads her into the shower.

Even now, his touch is something out of a dream. Cognizant of the night she's had, he keeps his hands chaste as he washes her skin. As always, he never asks for anything she wouldn't already give. The minutes trickle by like the water droplets that cling to their bodies, and after a while, Gloss just brings her back into him and holds her. The safety she feels is poignant and beautiful. She wishes it would last.

They don't speak again when they turn the water off, dry themselves, and tumble into her bed. She wants to tell him that he should go back to the District 1 suite, but she doesn't. Her own selfishness prohibits her from sending him away. When he brings her close and pulls the covers over them, Elara really can't bring herself to do it. All she can do is curl up against his body and wish that things were different. That, maybe someday, the world will change and they will be able to love each other properly – without hiding their affections from the Capitol.

Without hiding it from each other.


	8. That bolsters all it holds divine

**Chapter Eight | Which seeks to bolster all it holds divine.**

"_Being held a foe, he may not have access_

_To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear,_

_And she as much in love, her means much less_

_To meet her new beloved anywhere."_

_2, 9-12 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_When Gloss invites her over to his apartment the next time they're both in the Capitol some months later, Elara isn't expecting company. It would have been nice if he'd warned her that his sister would be there too. She might have saved herself some embarrassment._

_The moment he opens the door, she throws herself at him, pulling him into a kiss that actually ends up pushing him back a bit in surprise. Of course, Gloss is quick to recover; he drags her firmly against him and tangles his fingers into her hair, kissing her as if he's a man starved. In a way, they both are. They haven't seen each other for months._

_She won't tell him, but she missed him more than she thought possible._

_He won't tell her, but he feels the same._

"_So this is the girl you're holed up with whenever you come to the Capitol?" a voice sudden asks. It's dry and sarcastic, with plenty of judgement. It comes from a woman Elara's met only once before, during her Victory Tour in District 1._

_She pulls away from Gloss quickly, peering over his shoulder at the tall blonde woman who is watching them from the kitchen doorway. To her horror, she feels herself blush. She hadn't realized he had company! What if he'd let her go on to do what she had wanted to do? Elara glowers over at Gloss with a raised eyebrow, but the man only laughs._

_He seems to think that the situation is hilarious. He doubts he's laughed so hard in his life. He even has to lean against the wall to catch his breath, which neither women seem to find comical. Elara spears him with an unamused glower, while Cashmere just rolls her eyes before turning to her and sarcastically inquiring, "Elara Winston. We've met before."_

_Elara clears her throat awkwardly and mutters, "…Yeah. That's me."_

_Suddenly she feels a bit inadequate in the face of this blonde haired beauty. Like her brother, Cashmere has also gained a strong reputation in the Capitol. The pair of them are Panem's most beloved Victors, most likely due to the fact that they are a sibling pair – the only siblings who have won the Games two consecutive years in a row. Their fame is legendary, and like Gloss, Cashmere is utterly gorgeous._

_She strikes an imposing figure. Her hair shines like sunlight, and her bright eyes are mirrored reflections of Gloss's. She is feminine in a way Elara is not – curvier, more physically desirable. It's fairly clear to see why the Capitol has named her their Goddess._

_Finally catching his breath, Gloss chuckles, "Well this is nice. Want a drink, Winston?"_

_Elara's response is a frigid stare that makes him raise an eyebrow, his gaze shining with amusement at her plight. Honestly, she's half caught between being angry at his clandestine ways and uncoordinated at the thought that he's so amused at this strange turn of events. She should've known he'd pull a stunt like this. She knows him well enough by now to know that he's more of a trouble maker than he lets on._

_Cashmere sashays into the fold with an imperious, "I think we could all use a drink. I need something strong to erase the sight of you hanging all over my brother."_

_The towering glance she sends Elara makes her feel rather small by comparison. Still, she isn't one to let her confidence be shaken so easily. Raising her chin stubbornly, Elara snarks, "He didn't seem to mind."_

_Cashmere blinks at her with hard eyes, and Elara stares right back in challenge. Off to the side, Gloss just crosses his arms with a wide smirk and watches the show down as if it's the most entertaining thing since television was invented._

"_Don't mind her, Winston. She's always had an overprotective streak. Older sister complex," he adds, and throws an arm over Elara's shoulders to lead her further into his apartment. She doesn't really need a guide at this point. She could probably navigate this place with her eyes closed – not that she intends on saying anything about that with Cashmere glaring at them._

_With a scoff, Cashmere steps into the kitchen and says, "Can't blame me. You're a total idiot half the time. Especially right now." And she throws Elara a hard look that tells her why she thinks that Gloss is being an idiot. It doesn't take a genius to realize what Cashmere's getting at._

_Elara purses her mouth. She supposes there's some truth to her words. Her and Gloss probably are idiots for getting so involved with each other, even if their affections don't transcend the bedroom – or so she tells herself._

_Gloss snorts as he searches through the cabinet for a few glasses, and drawls, "I told you already, Cash. Winston and I have a special relationship and it's none of your business."_

_Cashmere rolls her eyes, "Yeah? Well considering the fact that Snow's been extending your schedule, I'd say it is. He clearly knows something's going on between you and – "_

"_Wait, Snow's been doing what?" Elara cuts in, face morphing into an expression of surprise. She hadn't been aware of that. Gloss hadn't mentioned anything to her._

_She turns to look at him with a demanding look in her eyes, to which he merely raises an eyebrow. He opens his mouth to reply to her, but his sister cuts him off with an annoyed, "Oh this is just wonderful. My brother's the one getting punished for your stupid affair, or whatever it is you call it, and you're getting off scot-free?"_

_Elara pauses with a frown and mutters, "…Well, I have been coming to the Capitol more often, but – "_

"_You didn't stop to wonder why?" Cashmere asks sarcastically. Elara feels at once silly for not thinking more into the reasons behind the increased amount of invitations she's been getting in the recent months. She awkwardly falls into silence and clears her throat. Cashmere just laughs, "You're not as smart as Flickerman makes you out to be, Winston. Genius, my ass. I don't know why my brother seems to like you so much. I don't see anything worthwhile."_

_With that, the blonde Goddess floats from the room, leaving the two of them alone. Several moments later, the front door slams as Cashmere makes a rather dramatic exit. Elara barely manages to fight back a grimace at the loud, ricocheting sound._

_Across the kitchen, Gloss stares at her with an unreadable expression, before calmly saying, "It takes a while for her to warm up to people. Just ignore her for now."_

_Elara's sharp eyes flicker over to his. Her expression is tight, and he sighs. Before he can say anything else, though, she says, "Maybe we should stop this, Gloss."_

_Her words seem to shock him, because he falls silent and just stares at her. His jaw clenches, but his movements are calm when he puts the empty glasses he'd collected onto the counter. Elara just stands there and waits for his reply, crossing her arms because she feels a bit awkward, standing in the middle of his kitchen and declaring that they should stop their strange, undefined relationship. To be honest, she has no idea what they even are, and therein lies yet another problem. Does she really want to keep going down this path? Is it worth the pain? Her mind tells her it's not, but her heart…_

_Well, that's another matter entirely._

_Almost a full minute goes by before Gloss coolly says, "I don't care what Snow does to me. I like being with you. You make me feel…like I'm living. Like there's hope for me still."_

_His eyes flick up to hers, and once again they stare at each other silently as his words sink into her. Her heart thuds in betrayal, because she feels the exact same thing, and it's a little terrifying because that must mean that she likes him a little more than she'd thought._

_Elara lowers her head to stare at the floor, fingers clenching into the sleeves of her jacket, which she still hasn't taken off yet. She slowly asks, "…Will your sister be coming back?"_

_He sees the question for what it is: acceptance. With a quiet smile, Gloss ducks his head for a moment and responds, "Nah. She's got her own place."_

_Then, glancing back up at her, they're both rather caught off guard with the fact that the atmosphere between them is suddenly a little awkward, in a pleasant way. It's a fresh feeling, as though they're starting over from the very beginning. As though they're doing it all for the first time. Elara smiles slowly at him and turns. As she walks to where his bedroom is, her jacket falls to the floor with a rustle of fabric. Gloss presses a smile down, watching her as she disappears into his bedroom. He thinks it's strangely perfect, how comfortable she's gotten around him. It's so different from the awkwardness she'd exhibited during their first few nights with each other. He loves that she no longer feels the need to cover herself up around him._

_He lingers there for only a moment before chuckling and taking the bottle of liquor and two of the glasses and following her into the room. Personally, he feels that the night has already been a success. Cashmere will warm up to her eventually. He knows his sister well enough to realize that she isn't nearly as stand-offish as she likes to portray. And, well, if the night keeps going in the direction it currently is, Gloss thinks he could get used to this._

_In the heat of the moment, as he lowers his mouth to Elara's and covers her body with his, he doesn't think that's such a bad thing. And later – when they pour the liquor and idle in the bed and joke about their lives in a far more lighthearted manner than they probably should, he doubts he ever will._

_Yes, Elara Winston snuck up on him, but as he pulls her closer and sighs out at the feeling of her skin against his, he doesn't care._

* * *

"You had quite the night, didn't you?" Cashmere's voice drawls to Elara the next morning. Elara is already sitting in the public viewing room, where several other mentors are idling. She's got a plate of eggs and bacon in front of her and is in the process of swallowing a sip of coffee when the Victor from District 1 ambushes her, throwing herself onto the couch beside Elara with a rather undignified sigh. Undignified for someone as elegant as Cashmere Augustine, anyway. Elara chokes a bit in surprise, both at Cashmere's abrupt entrance as well as the nature of her inquiry, and turns to face her with a glowering expression. In response, Cashmere merely raises a dry eyebrow.

"I wasn't aware I was being so…obvious," Elara grumbles, feeling suddenly quite guilty about the night she'd had. The sponsor she had secured for Matilde wasn't exactly gentle with her, and Gloss's reaction when she'd gotten back to the Tribute Center had been less than stellar.

Cashmere just waves a hand and replies, "You weren't. I can just read you better than you think." Then, when Elara graces her with a dubious look, she shrugs and concedes, "Gloss is in a bad mood this morning."

Ah. That explains it. Elara can't particularly blame Gloss, of course. She'd have the same reaction if he'd spent the night with someone just to get a sponsorship for his tribute. She had thought, though, that they'd reached a concession since then. He'd stayed nearly the whole night in her arms, and when he'd left early that morning to return to his own suite, he had kissed her solidly on the mouth despite her being only half awake. Her drowsy reciprocation to his kiss had made him chuckle breathily. He hadn't wanted to leave – a fact that he'd made quite clear when he didn't immediately try to wrangle himself out of her tight, possessive hold.

Elara glances behind Cashmere to see if her brother is in the vicinity. Where one of them is, the other is sure to follow. To her subtle surprise, though, Gloss is nowhere to be found.

"He told you, then?" Elara haltingly wonders, taking a bite of her bagel just to give herself something to do. She's not sure how to react to this news, mainly because she's a little confused as to why Gloss is in a sour mood to begin with. If anyone knows the answer to that, it's his sister.

Cashmere hums, taking a sip of her own coffee as she looks over at the large screen that's currently showing the Career pack rationing some of their food for a breakfast of their own. "He didn't even need to. He only ever gets riled up like that when you're involved." She sends Elara a knowing look.

With a certain childish petulance, Elara mumbles, "You make it sound like that's a _bad_ thing." She does, after all, quite like the sight of Gloss _riled_ up.

Cashmere snorts. "He's jealous. You know he doesn't like the thought of you with someone else, however forced it is. He lo – " she cuts herself off quickly, swallowing the word as if its cursed, and gives the room a furtive look-over to see if anyone's watching them. The other Victors who are here hardly give the pair a second glance. Chaff's got a few of them wrapped up in a card game over in the corner, and they're loudly gambling away.

Elara stares at her friend with understanding eyes. The word that Cashmere had been about to say is rather obvious, and equally as forbidden. Victors can't just go around spouting things about love. That is a dangerous road to go down. Still, despite Elara's inner knowledge that love is exactly what bridges the gap between her and Gloss, she is somewhat surprised to hear that Cashmere sees it just as clearly. She rarely allows herself to think too hard on what she feels for Gloss. That, too, is a dangerous road.

"He didn't seem angry with me before," Elara murmurs, saving Cashmere from her stumble. The look of relief that Cashmere sends her is short-lived, though.

She sighs, "You know how my brother is, Elara. He only gets emotional about something when he's got time to think about it. He's backwards like that."

Elara purses her lips. She stares down at her breakfast with a careful expression, then looks up at Cashmere and says, "Maybe I should go talk to him."

Cashmere just shrugs unhelpfully and responds, "He's in the suite. It's his day to go out and get sponsors, so he's probably getting ready."

Pausing a moment as she gets up, Elara carefully wonders, "…Is he alone?" She's referring to the District 1 escort and stylists more than anything, but the question is loaded nonetheless.

Cashmere snorts in barely hidden amusement and drawls, "Last I checked." Then in a quieter voice, she demands, "But keep your hands off him. He needs to hunt down sponsors and you'll just distract him."

Elara can't help the smirk from gracing her mouth at the thought. She sarcastically quips, "He's the one you need to say that to, not me." The twinkle of mirth in her eyes just makes Cashmere scoff. She isn't fooled.

Elara makes her way to the elevator, where she presses the button for District 1. Cashmere's words follow her as she exits the elevator and walks down the hallway to where the suite is located. She struggles to think of what to say to him, but she falls short. When it comes to Gloss, she finds that it's better to wait and see what his mood is before planning speeches, because he has a startling tendency to catch her off guard. She suspects he does it on purpose.

She knocks on the door for propriety's sake, but doesn't stop to wait for him to answer it. He's most likely in his room anyway. She checks the other rooms before she makes her way to his, though, just to make sure they are indeed alone. Not that she's planning for anything to happen, but all bets are off when the two of them are alone together – something she's learned fairly quickly from the very beginning.

When she makes her way around to his room, the door is cracked. She nudges it open quietly and her eyes land on his form where he stands in front of his dresser, fixing the cuffs of his button up shirt. It's untucked and unbuttoned, something she realizes when he turns around at the sound of her entrance.

His eyes land on her briefly and Gloss immediately purses his mouth and turns back around, this time walking over to the mirror to start buttoning the shirt. She'd like to tell him not to, but instead she just murmurs, "Cashmere mentioned you were a little…off this morning."

Her choice of words makes him snort. Their eyes clash through the mirror, and he sends her an unreadable glower. "Cashmere needs to stay out of my business," is all he says in response, and Elara falters a bit because she suddenly wonders if she should have just stayed away to give him time to cool down.

With a wry expression, she dryly says, "Well then. I guess I'll go make sure she knows that." She makes to leave, intent on giving him the space he clearly needs, but to her surprise he catches her upper arm before she can, and closes the door with his other hand as he turns her to face him.

Gently pressing her to the closed door, Gloss mutters, "You're not going anywhere, Winston."

She swallows thickly at the sudden rush of desire she feels for him, and reaches up to fix his collar. His shirt's still half undone, but she's loathe to fix that, too. Instead she just brushes her fingers into his hair, smoothing out the messy strands as she whispers, "Are you angry with me for last night?"

The question makes him clench his jaw. She's sure his answer will be a resolute 'yes', but instead Gloss just presses their foreheads together and grasps her waist tightly. His voice is hoarse when he breathes, "I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at this whole system – that you're forced to be with other men instead of _me_ – "

She cuts him off with an abrupt kiss, sliding her mouth over his before he can finish his words. She doesn't really need him to. She understands his plight perfectly, for she feels it just as strongly as he does. The moment she forcefully tugs him down to kiss him, Gloss responds fiercely to her. He drags her roughly against him as if he's merely been waiting for her to act in this manner, and deepens the kiss within seconds, keeping her pressed between the door and his body.

It's funny how a kiss can be so distracting. Her focus is immediately diverted. He captures all of her attention immediately, without even trying. Within moments, Elara is lost to him just as surely as she's ever been, and even when he loops his hands beneath her thighs and heaves her up into his arms, she can't stop him. It's physically impossible. She wants him too badly for the thought to even cross her mind.

His hand scrabbles over the doorknob and twists the lock. It clicks into place with an audible snap. The moment it does, he's pushing them across the room, lips still furiously connected, and shuffles them into the bathroom. Elara finds it rather difficult to keep up with his actions – until she slides down his body and watches him pull away to turn the shower on. Then, frowning in confusion, she asks, "Gloss?"

He doesn't verbally respond. Instead he just wrestles with his shirt and heaves it over his head with one swift movement before coming back to her. He sweeps her into another heavy kiss before she can say anything more, and by then, Elara's halfhearted complaints vanish completely. It's a little hard to pull away from him when his hands are pushing the fabric of her shirt out of the way and smoothing over the planes of her back – and up, to grapple with the clasp of her bra. When his hands insistently slide around her to grasp her breasts, Elara is well and truly distracted.

Not quite distracted enough, though, to murmur, "Cashmere told me to keep my hands off of you cause you need to get sponsors – mmm – "

He pinches her nipples gently and bites her lip, effectively cutting her off with a drawling, "Well she didn't tell _me_ that."

Elara chuckles and moans, "Funny. I said the same exact thing."

His eyes blaze into hers as he smirks, "She should know better. When have we ever been able to keep our hands off each other?" And, as if to prove the truth of his own words, he drags her shirt up and off her.

She pushes her bra away and reaches for him, pressing herself against his bare chest. They both sigh at the feeling that rattles through them, though the sound disappears quickly around the noise of the shower. She's happy that the Capitol hasn't yet invented a quieter showerhead, because it comes in handy in certain instances. The sound of rushing water overpowers the soft satisfied noises that they make as they sink into each other's arms.

His hands slide over her, shucking her pants away until she's completely bare. In turn, she wrestles with the zipper of his trousers with frantic intent, because she can feel the hardness beneath her fingers and she wants nothing more than to make sure that he's as bare as her. Gloss pulls back to watch her with a dark, amused expression. His eyes gleam with the hint of his desire, especially when she growls in annoyance and settles for shoving his trousers halfway down his hips and reaching in to pull his length out.

His eyes flash at her frustration and he takes pity on them both, pushing the trousers down and kicking them off as he bites back a moan. She's touching him firmly, fingers sweeping over his erection with long, slow strokes that make him weak in the knees.

"We don't have much time," he warns her, palming his hand up her hip until he reaches her breast.

He massages it firmly, loving the way her taut nipple feels against his hand and the hum of pleasure that breaks through her voice when she hoarsely responds, "Let's not waste it then."

He tips her chin up to kiss her. Their hands smooth over each other's bodies, delighting in the skin to skin contact. It's been months since they've been able to be with each other like this – bare, that is. The last few times had been frantic and needy, hardly gentle. Quick couplings are all they are afforded during the Games season, and usually, they don't have time to bother with removing all their clothes. He very much likes the sight of her without any, though. From the heated look in her eyes, he knows the feeling is mutual.

Within seconds, Gloss is heaving her up and pressing her against the wall, and her legs are wrapping securely around his waist. He slides into her gently, slowly filling her up. They idle for a moment like that, pressed so close. His forehead rests against hers, and the only sound they hear is the sound of their gasping breaths and the water that hits the shower floor several feet away.

When he finally moves, they both huddle closer together, fingers grasping as they imprint their love against the tiled wall. She clings to him like a sapling, muffling her moans against his broad shoulder as he pushes his hips into hers. She tries to meet him halfway, but the position makes it rather difficult so she just ends up drowning against him. He doesn't seem to mind.

They truly don't have much time to spend in this moment, so when their ends hit them, they don't try to drag them out. Elara presses her fingers down to her clit to work herself faster, moaning vividly when Gloss shoves them away and replaces them with his own. He spins her into a climax that makes her forget how to breathe, and in turn, it takes him only seconds to groan and reach an end of his own.

When she shakily sinks back to the floor, Gloss gathers her up against him and they stand together like two entwined trees. Silence cascades around them, broken only by the sound of the shower. She thinks she's never felt more at peace than when she's in his arms. He makes her feel safe and protected, as if nothing could ever harm her.

After a few minutes of total silence, Gloss turns his head to look at her. He catches her eye, and they stare at each other. There's something in his gaze that makes her pause, something that has her heart beating faster. She thinks she knows what it is, but she dares not speak it aloud.

He dares not, either, even when he starts to whisper, "Elara, I…" But he cuts himself off before he can say it, and she reaches up to caress his face.

Turning his chin, she gently kisses him. He sinks down into the kiss like a man starved, breathing heavily as she takes him against her. His hands are tight, grasping. She doesn't speak for a long while. But when she does, her voice is hoarse.

"I know, Gloss," she breathes. To her horror, her eyes fill with tears that she refuses to shed, and she blinks them away before he can see. But he does. It's hard for him not to notice her when he loves her so much.

It is as tragic as it is beautiful, their love, for even speaking it aloud is something that has become forbidden to them. No one would hear it, in this small room with the shower that washes away the sounds they make, but it doesn't matter. They've reached an unspoken agreement over the years that they never say the word aloud. It will only hurt them all the more to confess their love verbally, only to know that they cannot fulfill it as they wish to.

He stares at her, reaching up to brush his thumb below her eye, and sighs out heavily. There's nothing to say, really. All he can do is hold her and let his actions speak for themselves. And they do – they do. For she knows that he loves her even if he doesn't tell her outright, and she desperately hopes that he knows too.

Instead of speaking, Gloss just tucks her against his body and buries his face against her neck, memorizing the feel of her. It will be a memory he will be glad to have, when the long nights of separation once more creep up between them.


	9. Your clash in like a symphony of sound

**Chapter Nine | Your clash is like a symphony of sound**

"_Under love's heavy burden do I sink."_

_1.4, 22 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_If she can help it, Elara Winston does not dress up. That isn't to say she doesn't like looking good, but here in the Capitol, her stylists seem to be under the impression that making her presentable for polite society requires removing all her body hair and spending hours slathering creams into her skin. It's a time consuming process that she hates more than anything, mainly because at the end of it all, she looks nothing like herself._

_Tonight, Ignatius puts her into an emerald green cocktail dress that shows off the lower half of her legs. It's wrapped tightly around her form, pushing her breasts up and clenching firmly around her waist and hips. She is unaccustomed to wearing tall heels, but her stylists strap them around her ankles anyway, despite her protests. Then they proceed to wrangle her hair into a very complicated updo that requires a lot of pulling and tugging, so that by the time Ignatius and his group are finished, her scalp is in more pain than the look is worth._

_She does look relatively nice – if one believes that the plastic, overdone image in which the Capitol often favors is, in fact, nice. Elara personally finds her finished look to be a little gaudy and over the top, especially when Ignatius puts several jeweled necklaces around her neck and has his stylists brush on far more eyeshadow than she is accustomed to wearing. She feels more like a rabid raccoon than a person._

_Alas, such are the evils that she must put up with when the Capitol is hosting a large gala in the Victors' names._

_It's been a year and a half since she won her own Games, and she is no longer the newest Victor to come out of the arena alive. This year, the Capitol is preparing to celebrate the newest celebrity, who is just now wrapping up her Victory Tour. There is always a huge party in the Capitol at the end of each tour, and anyone who is anyone is invited to attend. Mayors from the inner districts are all there, as well as important Peacekeeper generals, Gamemakers, and celebrity CEOs in the Capitol. And, of course, the Victors._

_They come from all the districts. To refuse a summons from the President is never a good idea, and so Elara is attending the gala with her former mentor, Harley. The man looks older than he actually is when she sees him after his stylists have gotten their hands on him. The two of them share a cringing look when they see each other. The fashion sense in the Capitol is a far cry different from the simple convenience of their clothing in District 5._

"_Ready to go?" he reluctantly asks, holding out his arm for her. Elara's only response is a quick grimace before she hooks her arm into his and allows him to lead them out into the streets, where their car is waiting for them. Neither of them wants to be here. Capitol parities are exhausting._

_And yet Elara can't help but feel the barest undercurrent of excitement. The reason for it comes in the form of a rather striking man who is also attending the evening's celebration._

_She hasn't seen Gloss in about three months, now. Their last meeting had been short lived. They'd barely even had time to say hello before their contrasting schedules had kept them apart for the duration of their stay in the Capitol, and before she knew it, Elara had been on the train back to District 5 without even the opportunity to say goodbye. Not that either of them requires such sentiments. Gloss probably hadn't even noticed._

_The thought makes Elara frown as she steps into the gala, but the cameras that immediately flash at her soon force her expression into a much lighter one. She shouldn't even care if Gloss had noticed or not, but inside she knows she does. She wonders if she's being silly, and the grounded, realistic side of her yells a strong 'yes'._

_With a sigh, she unhooks herself from Harley and murmurs, "I'll be at the bar."_

_He nods shortly and they part ways: him to search for the friends he has among the older Victors, and her to distract herself from her overly idealistic thoughts with a strong drink. She doesn't get very far, though, before she catches sight of the man she's been missing far more than she'd like to admit._

_Gloss looks incredibly handsome tonight, so much so that the mere sight of him is enough to stop her in her tracks. Silly Capitol creatures weave around her, occasionally gushing at her briefly before continuing on their way, but her attention remains on him. She can't entirely blame herself. Dressed in a tailored navy suit with a soft creamy yellow tie expertly finishing off the look, he is a magnet for attention. Capitol women crowd around him, giggling at things he says. Some of the bolder ones reach out to touch his arm or his shoulder. His reactions are always light and even somewhat flirtatious, which makes Elara feel a little sick._

_She knows he's just playing the game, but a large part of her loathes having to bear witness to it. She swallows and pushes herself toward the bar, leaving the scene behind her. The thought that he may very well be going home with one of those women is what prompts her to order the strongest drink she can._

_She's taking a rather large gulp of it when a seductive voice suddenly drawls, "Hello, Elara."_

_She stiffens, and turns to see none other than Finnick Odair leaning casually against the bar beside her, chin resting on his hand as his eyes flash alluringly into hers._

_Finnick is an unknown variable for her. She'd met him only a few times over the last year and a half and she's never had a full conversation with the man. She's heard rumors about the things Snow forces him to do, and how he suffers far more than the rest of them when it concerns the hotel rooms he'd made to go to. She's never spoken more than a handful of words to him though. To be honest, she's kept mostly to herself since her victory, with the exception of Gloss._

"…_Finnick," she greets carefully, eyeing him with a shrewd gaze. He seems to see right through her barriers and smirks widely, helping himself to the barstool beside her._

"_You look ravishing tonight," he tells her in that seductive voice, and generously slides his gaze down her figure. Her discomfort rolls off of her in waves, which only seems to make him more amused. His eyes shine with his mirth when he looks back up at her face and purrs, "Green is a good color on you. Makes your hair shine."_

_With a dry expression, Elara drawls, "Does that line usually work for you?"_

_Finnick laughs and shrugs, "Sometimes. Did it work this time?"_

_The look she sends him is answer enough, and he chuckles again. He turns to the bartender and orders his own drink. While the man is preparing it for him, Finnick glances over at her and says, "Haven't seen you around for a while. You've been hiding on us. Well, most of us." The addition is coupled with a sly glance over her shoulder. Elara follows his gaze even though she knows who he's looking at._

_Her eyes hover over Gloss's figure for a split second before she turns back to the Victor from District 4 and demands, "What do you mean by that?"_

_Surely he doesn't know about her and Gloss's clandestine affair? The whole point of it being clandestine to begin with is to make sure that no one is aware of their relations. She eyes Finnick suspiciously, wondering at the knowing gleam in his gaze and why he's looking at her like he can see right down into her very soul. To say that it's discomfiting is a blatant understatement._

_His mouth edges up into a smirk. "Since you pride yourself on your intellect, I'll let you guess."_

_Elara glowers at him. "Oh, I can definitely guess, but I'd prefer having you speak your mind instead of trying to spin me in circles."_

_Her blunt response seems to amuse him. His eyebrows raise slightly, and his smirk turns into a full blown smile. Tilting his head at her, Finnick hedges, "People talk, is all. I've heard a few interesting stories about the comings and goings of two particular Victors whenever they're in the Capitol at the same time."_

_She's startled at several things. First is the fact that Finnick is being suddenly honest with her. Second, that he's looking at her with strangely serious eyes, despite his amused smile. Third, that he even knows about her and Gloss at all. She'd thought that they were being a bit more discreet, at least when it comes to fooling the majority of the citizens._

_Gripping her liquor with tight fingers, Elara buys herself some time when she lifts the glass up to take a sip. She's alarmed by Finnick's words, but she doesn't let her shock show itself in her expression or in the tones of her voice when she says, "That's a very bold suggestion, Finnick."_

_He hums, watching her closely as he rubs a finger over his mouth. After a brief pause, he murmurs, "If I were you, Elara, I'd be a little more careful. You shouldn't get in too deep with someone like Gloss. I hear he's not always a gentleman."_

_To his surprise, Elara snorts out a laugh and sends him a sideways glance. "I'm not a fool, Finnick. Besides, I'm hardly in love with him."_

_Even as she says it, though, she's not sure if that's true. Surely she doesn't love him – not the way people in those great love stories do. She wouldn't give her life to spare his. She wouldn't sacrifice herself for his safety. Isn't that was love is? A total willingness to do whatever you can to help the object of your affection, in whatever way they need? And yet, despite this, she's not blind to the fact that she does feel something more for Gloss than she had in the beginning. She just…isn't sure what it is._

_Finnick studies her carefully for a long minute before exhaling and murmuring, "Love has a tendency of sneaking up on you."_

_He turns his eyes to something in the distance, and Elara follows his gaze yet again. This time, though, he isn't looking at Gloss. He's looking at the newest Victor, for whom this party is being held. She's a girl named Annie Cresta, and she's from District 4 same as Finnick. The way that he's looking at her with those soft eyes tells Elara that his words are not meant to be a joke. He's being utterly serious, because he knows what it feels like to want someone that you aren't allowed to have. She stares at him in shock, and he turns back to look at her. They sit there for a long moment, just staring at each other, until Finnick smiles that seductive, charming smile he uses to hide himself back away._

"_You're playing a dangerous game, Winston," he murmurs to her, but this time, she doesn't feel reproach towards his warning. She feels that he's only looking out for her._

_With a sigh, she responds, "And you're reading too far into it than you should."_

_Then, giving him one last glance, Elara leaves him there, quite content to walk away from this particular conversation. Finnick just watches as she leaves, and mutters to himself, "…I'm not sure I am, actually."_

_For he sees something that she doesn't: the singular focus of a pair of eyes that watch her movements as she makes her way across the room. A gaze that belongs to none other than Gloss Augustine. He doesn't claim to know everything, but he'd be damned if he's wrong about this. There's definitely something more than simple lust between the two of them. After all, he thinks as he looks back to Annie's figure – he would know._

* * *

Katniss Everdeen is proving to be more of a fighter than anyone would have guessed. She's a survivor. It seems that no matter what the Capitol throws at her, she manages to find a way to out of it. But, even more than that, there is something about her that draws people in. She has a magnetic presence that the Capitol is enamored with. Before the games are even a week in, she possesses the majority of the camera time. Her face always seems to be on screen.

Elara doesn't know what to make of it. On the one hand, she's glad that the girl has her wits about her. On the other, it means that Matilde is in greater danger. The tribute from District 5 is hardly on air at all. She is a hidden component who keeps to herself as much as possible and uses subterfuge to keep herself alive. She certainly doesn't draw the same attention as Katniss does, which is both a blessing and a curse.

Marvel, the tribute from District 1, dies at the hand of Katniss that morning. It's a quick death – an arrow through the heart. He bleeds out on the forest floor. Within seconds of his fall, the canon signals his death. Gloss and Cashmere don't react to the slaughter. They just exchange a heavy glance and keep silent. It is, after all, just a part of the system. There's nothing they can do anyway.

Their girl tribute, Glimmer, had died some days before. Now that they don't have a surviving tribute in the games, they no longer need to search for sponsors or dedicate their time to keeping their tributes alive, so they turn their attention to the other Victors and mingle. Elara, though, still has Matilde to look out for. She stations herself in front of the screen, obsessed with keeping tabs on her. It's very rare for a tribute from District 5 to make it this far in the Games. Usually, the weaker physique that most citizens from 5 have spells a faster end. Elara thinks, quietly, that Matilde might just have a chance after all.

Later that afternoon, she sits with Johanna in the public viewing room. Johanna's tributes are also gone at this point, but she still keeps Elara company because apparently she doesn't have anything better to do.

"She's pretty smart," the aggressive Victor says as they watch Matilde sneak through the Career's camp and navigate around buried explosives. Elara grunts in agreement. The girl is smart – probably one of the most intelligent tributes she's had so far. It had only taken her a few seconds to realize that the upturned piles of dirt were actually hiding bombs that were recycled from the pedestals.

Swinging an arm over the top of the couch, Elara responds, "If she keeps this up, she might just outlast them all."

Her words are cautious, because she doesn't want to jinx them. One wrong move could mean the end for Matilde. Thankfully, the Capitol hasn't been paying her much mind as of late. She hasn't had to deal with any mutts or orchestrated wildfires, like Katniss has. Her strategy of keeping herself under the radar has worked spectacularly so far.

Johanna hums, "Anything's possible, I guess. My bets are on the Girl on Fire though. The Capitol adores her. And don't forget that Mellark kid."

If she's upset that Johanna doesn't share her loyalty to Matilde, Elara doesn't show it. She just raises an eyebrow and points out, "Last time he was on screen, he had a pretty bad cut. I'd be surprised if he lasts another day without medicine."

Johanna concedes the point, then glances over at Haymitch and shouts, "Hey Abernathy! You gonna just let your kid die of infection?"

It's unheard of for District 12 to get this far into the Games. Like Elara's own district, Haymitch's tributes are often useless in the Games. Not that they lack spirit, but they oftentimes don't have practical skills that helps them stay alive. District 5 is similar in that way. This year, both districts are proving those stereotypes wrong.

Haymitch, who is sitting on the other side of the room with a tall drink in his hand, glowers over at Johanna and snipes, "Mind your own business, Mason."

Johanna snorts at the response and glances at Elara. "He doesn't even know what to do with himself. None of his tributes have ever made it this far."

Elara just shrugs. She's about to respond when a pair of hands slide onto her shoulders, and a familiar scent of musky cologne invades her senses.

"Still here?" Gloss asks, looking over at the screen as he starts to massage Elara's shoulders. She immediately relaxes into his touch. He's got strong hands, and she utterly melts beneath them as they loosen up her tense muscles. Johanna, of course, just looks disgusted at their proximity and edges away from them.

"Mmm," is all Elara murmurs, sinking against the couch as Gloss circles his thumbs against the back of her neck. He chuckles at her reaction.

The other Victors hardly notice. Either they're too engrossed in the ames, or they're just too used to seeing Gloss and Elara's antics. Though the pair of them are never overly obvious about their affair in front of the others, none of the Victors are disillusioned about the duo's feelings for each other.

Gloss's hands slide off of her. A moment later, he's leaning down and crossing his arms over the back of the couch. She can feel his breath on her cheek when he whispers, "Roof tonight? I'll bring wine."

She smiles slightly and turns her head to look at him. He catches her eye with a smirk. True, their dates are sorely lacking most of the time – if one can even call them dates to begin with that is – but the effort that goes behind each and every one of them makes up for the dismal settings.

Her nose brushes his cheek when she playfully breathes, "Depends on the wine."

He rolls his eyes at her. "You never used to care what kind of alcohol I brought."

The complaint is amused though. His eyes flash at her with laughingly. She grins.

"I suppose I could probably be convinced," she tells him quietly, and he chuckles.

He doesn't say anything more, except to whisper, "9 o'clock," to her, before he pulls away and ambles back out of the room. Elara turns her attention back to the screen, only for Johanna to snort in disgust and mutter, "You two are gross."

Elara just smirks and nudges her with her elbow. Johanna can think what she likes. When it comes to Gloss, she doesn't care how ridiculous she is.

When nine o'clock rolls around, Elara makes her way up to the rooftop. Gloss is waiting for her by the railing. She's somewhat surprised to see that he's put on a dress shirt. He's got a bottle of wine tucked into the crux of his arm. There are no glasses in sight, but she doesn't really care. The rooftop isn't exactly synonymous with a perfect date, and to be honest, Elara isn't convinced that he'd meant this to be a date to begin with. She suspects that it's more of an effort to get her mind off the Games, which she's grateful for regardless of his intentions.

"What took you?" he asks, sounding slightly impatient. Elara raises an eyebrow at him. She opens her mouth to reply, but before she can, he's looping his free arm around her waist and catching her mouth in a kiss that frankly makes her breathless.

"…You said nine o'clock," she mumbles against his mouth, reaching up to grasp his shirt. He grunts, another twist of impatience that makes her smirk.

"Come on," he tells her after a moment, leading the way to a small grassy area on the other side of the roof. They take a seat on an iron wrought bench by the far railing. It's obscured from the rooftop doorway in such a way that prevents anyone from seeing them immediately if they venture up here, but they can see the door clearly enough to see any potential intruders.

Gloss unscrews the cap of the wine and tilts it towards her. Elara gives him a wry look.

"What?" he asks with a laugh, and takes the first swig of it himself. "Not classy enough for you?"

Elara just rolls her eyes at him and shifts against his side, reaching for the neck of the bottle to take a rather inelegant sip. He grins at her in amusement. In response, she wrinkles her nose at him and takes another sip as if to prove his words wrong.

They talk a bit about the Games, about their tributes, and about the fast passage of time. The Games are probably a little more than halfway over by now. It's impossible to tell exactly how much time is left. Each year is different. But Elara has been through enough of these scenarios to be able to guess fairly accurately by now. It's almost like a silent voice that whispers at her that her time with Gloss is running out.

After a while, the bottle of wine is abandoned on the grass beside the bench, and Elara makes herself comfortable against Gloss's chest. He wraps his arm around her and tilts his head back, looking up into the night sky. A comfortable silence cascades around them. When she closes her eyes, Elara could almost imagine that they are not in the Capitol at all, but in their own world. And, against her better judgement, her mind begins to paint a picture of what that world might look like.

She shouldn't do it to herself, but before she can stop the thoughts, she's suddenly imagining a future that she yearns for with every fiber of her being. A house where she might live with Gloss. Maybe it would have a garden in the back, and she'd plant vegetables every summer. She's never been very good with plants, but maybe she'd surprise herself. Amelia could live with them, or nearby at the very least, and Cashmere would be just around the corner that way she could come over and bother her brother at all hours of the day. But – the night would be theirs. They would spend it in whatever manner they want. The image is so peaceful and surreal and Elara tucks herself further against him and sighs.

He hears it and quietly wonders, "What are you thinking about?"

She brushes her thumbs against his chest, pausing. She's not so sure that it's a good thing to speak her mind in this instance. Gloss might just find her idealistic future to be a silly, girlish daydream. Maybe he wouldn't want anything to do with that sort of life.

When she doesn't respond, he picks his head up and frowns, "Elara?"

She buries her face against him and mumbles, "…I'm just thinking about what life would be like, if the Games didn't exist." She doesn't tell him any details about what she's imagined. Instead she just laughing adds, "We probably wouldn't be as close as we are right now, come to think of it."

Gloss is silent at her words. He peers down at the top of her head, and rather abruptly tells her, "You'd like it in District 1, you know."

She pulls away to stare at him in surprise, because he's seen right through her words to the truth beneath. The way his eyes gleam knowingly at her tell her as much, and she feels a little bashful about that. It's an unusual feeling for her, to be honest.

He tugs her back against his chest and continues, as if she'd never pulled away, "It's a lot sunnier than District 5, and there's always something going on. We've got festivals all the time, and our shopping district is almost as big as the Capitol's." He twists a strand of her hair between his fingers, watching the auburn shades of it glisten in the dim light of a nearby lamppost. As he loops it around his finger idly, he adds, "Even _you_ wouldn't be able to avoid getting a tan. The sun's always out. Hardly ever rains."

Elara laughs at this and snarks, "Are you implying that I'm too pale?"

With a playful nudge, he murmurs, "I don't care if you're pale or not, Winston. My point is, you'd like it there."

She hums with a soft smile, imagining the twisting rays of sunlight and the hot desert sand and the cacti that Gloss tells her dots the landscape everywhere you look. She's not sure if she can picture herself in a place that is so different from District 5, but to be honest, she wouldn't care where they lived – as long as they were together.

The thought makes her feel suddenly cold, because really, she shouldn't let herself think things like that. It just hurts even more when she remembers that they'll never get that house or that garden, and Cashmere will never come over to annoy them, and the nights will never belong to them – not truly – and really, what's the point of it all? Realistically, she's being a bit silly.

With a grimacing smile, Elara pulls away and mutters, "I guess it doesn't matter if I'd like it or not, does it? I doubt I'll ever be able to see it."

She stares at Gloss for a moment, and he stares back silently because he's not really sure what to say. To admit that she's probably right would be upsetting for them both, but Elara's words are probably more correct than either of them want to admit. He bites down an adamant refusal and just sighs. Elara gives him a small smile and gets up.

"We should probably go back to our rooms," she says, only for him to stand up and reach out to cup her face in his hands. He doesn't say a single word when he leans down to kiss her. At this point, words are useless things, and they do more harm than good. But actions – those can be counted on. He kisses her gently, and when he pulls back his eyes are almost sad, though the average person would probably not see the silent tilt of his sorrow behind the barriers he sets in place. To him, she is not an average person.

"You go in. I'm gonna stay out here a while longer," he tells her, and kisses her one last time before she pulls away and walks back to the doors. He watches her go silently, hands stuffed in his pockets. He doesn't look away until she closes the door behind her, and then he turns to walk over to the railing to look down at the city that sprawls out before him.

It is an ugly sight, he thinks. He'd like to tear it all apart.


	10. Which, even as it plays into the night,

**Chapter Ten | Which, even as it plays into the night,**

"_These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old."_

_3.2, 2-3 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_The Capitol is lonely without him. The next time she's invited to venture into the city, Gloss is not there. He's presumably back in District 1, and Elara is left alone in the slate grey streets, feeling aimless and ghostlike._

_It isn't a rare occurrence for them to miss each other by several days. Despite their frequent visits to the Capitol, their schedules don't always align. She tells herself that it's just as well. She doesn't need Gloss – she shouldn't need him. Becoming dependent on his presence in her life is a recipe for disaster. But she can't deny that a part of her, however small, sorely misses him this time around._

_She's not sure why this time is different than the others. Maybe it's the fact that her schedule is insanely busy, and that so far, her clients have all been rougher than usual. Most of them seem to have very peculiar tastes, and the humiliation of Elara's forced deeds is even stronger than it usually is as a result. She shouldn't compare her time with Gloss to her clients. It's a perversion of everything she's been through. But – she can't help it, sometimes. When she wakes up to sore thighs and deep bruises and welts that raise up from her skin like curses, she can't help but remember how gentle his hands are and how freeing it is to be with him._

_She thinks it's funny, sometimes, to think of Gloss as gentle. He's so outwardly domineering, and he strikes such an imposing figure with his brawny musculature and intense eyes that seem to always be seconds away from turning down into a glare. He doesn't look like he'd be capable of soft caresses, or even that he'd be interested in ensuring someone else's comfort. His Capitol image is charming and laid-back, but his Career status follows him wherever he goes._

_But he is gentle. His touch is nothing like the groping hands of her clients. His expression when he drags her to bed holds no traces of angry lust. And if he suspects that he's being too rough with her, he stops to ask if she's alright. It's amazing, how an inane little question like that makes such a tremendous difference. She feels completely safe with him. Even when they're not in bed together, his presence has become synonymous with a feeling of intense protection._

_She appreciates his body more than she would have thought, in the beginning. She could kiss every inch of him and never tire of it, but physical appreciation is not the only reason she likes to be with him. She finds herself desperately loving the way he laughs. His eyes crinkle at the edges, and his smile makes her feel a little weak at the knees. When he sleeps next to her, her nightmares disappear entirely, as if he drives them off before they can even appear. And sometimes, if he falls asleep before her, he says her name very low beneath his breath, as if he's dreaming of her. The first time it had happened, she'd stared at him for a long time in shock and happiness, wondering what, exactly, he'd been dreaming of. She loves the way he says her name when they're both awake, too. The cadence of it on his voice is addicting._

_She'd hoped that she would be able to catch him before he returned to District 1, but their trains had barely missed each other this time, and Elara must spend the week alone, with only her clients as company._

_One morning, she's aimlessly walking through the Capitol streets. During the daylit hours, her schedule is rife with interviews and photo shoots. On this particular morning, however, she has some free time to wander. She finds herself taking a walk into the business district of the city, which is nearby her apartment and boasts several nice grassy areas that she sometimes walks through on days such as this, when Gloss is not here and she has nothing to do. She's walking down the main street, passing shops and vendors, when she catches sight of something that makes her pause._

_It is a magazine, and on the front cover is a picture of Gloss. He's dressed in a crisp blue dress shirt that makes his eyes shine, and his hair is customarily mussed up. He's got that charming smile he often wears whenever he's dealing with the Capitol. Elara knows it by heart now, because she's privy to his real smiles – the smiles that hold honest happiness. Still, despite his orchestrated expression, the sight of him makes her feel a tiny bit less lonely, even if it's only an image._

_She buys it._

_She scolds herself for doing so every step she takes for the rest of her day._

_But – later on, when she's got some spare time, Elara takes out the magazine and studies his features with hungry eyes, eagerly flipping through it to read the interview and to see if there are any other pictures. She feels utterly ridiculous when she does, but to be honest, she doesn't really care._

_She misses him. She feels a little ridiculous about that too, but she can't help it._

* * *

"What do you think of this star-crossed lover image?" Gloss asks her later on when they're sitting together in the public viewing room. They've both got a plate of dinner on the table in front of them – a customary thing to do for the Victors, as the room is furnished with all manners of refreshments. Elara's spent most of the day here, though she hasn't helped herself to the spread that's laid out on the other end of the room until Gloss had joined her and reminded her that she should eat something.

In any case, the room is full of other Victors, though most of them are located on the other side of it. Haymitch is taking bets or some such thing. He seems to think that his tributes – both of them – will be victorious. Elara isn't surprised about his confidence. Ever since it was announced that two tributes from the same district may both be winners this year, Haymitch has been utterly focused on keeping Katniss and Peeta alive. They been holed up in a cave for days now, regaining their strength and driving home their supposed relationship. Elara thinks it's all fake. Katniss is an awkward mess every time she kisses Peeta, and Peeta…well, she's not so sure about him, actually.

With a sarcastic snort, Elara mutters, "It's a smart idea, I guess. Sponsors love that shit."

Beside her, Gloss glances up at the screen, where Katniss and Peeta are laying side by side in the cave, talking quietly about their lives in District 12. There's a strange look in his eyes as he watches them, as if he's trying to discern how he feels about their strategy. It's definitely never been done before in the history of the Games, at least not in their memory.

"I don't know," he murmurs thoughtfully, resting his chin on his palm as he watches the tributes. "…I'm not convinced that it's just an act."

With a wry expression, Elara stares at him. She raises her eyebrow and laughs, "Seriously? What else could it be? Katniss looks like she'd rather be anywhere else."

He sends her an amused look and quietly points out, "You looked like you'd rather be anywhere else too, the first time we…you know."

She's a little surprised that he'd bring their affair up, especially to compare it to Katniss and Peeta's. The parameters are totally different, after all. They had never had to pretend to be in a relationship – in fact, they usually pretend the exact opposite. Gloss catches her eye as he leans back, throwing an arm over the end of the couch as he watches her open her mouth a few times. There's a rather obvious look of amusement in his eyes at her hesitance. He smirks.

Stumbling, Elara scoffs, "Well, back then I didn't realize how much I – " She bites the words back before they can come out, and Gloss's expression turns curious in a hungry sort of way, as if he wants nothing more than for her to finish her sentence.

Elara clears her throat and turns back to the screen, crossing her arms over her chest. Her closed off body language does little to deter Gloss, though, who shifts a little closer to quietly inquire, "How much you what, Elara?"

She sends him a scowling look that makes his mouth twitch as he fights back a smirk. The sight of his amusement makes her nudge him with a sharp elbow as she mutters, "You _know_ what."

She reckons he does know. He probably knows exactly what she had been about to say, or at least the gist of it. Back then, she hadn't realized just how much she cared about Gloss. She hadn't realized just how much she would grow to love him.

He hums softly, leaning his head against his propped up hand as he studies her profile. After a gentle moment rolls by, Gloss murmurs, "They're confused, I think. They don't realize it either, yet. Like us."

Again, she turns to look at him, and her expression morphs into surprise. Gloss very rarely ever talks about what they mean to each other. She rarely does, either. It's safer, and easier, to just tiptoe around the boundaries of their affair. It's less dangerous if they don't allow themselves to get overly emotional. But there's something in his voice when he speaks, and in his eyes when he looks at her, that makes her pause. It sounds very much like yearning. Like love.

Feeling suddenly breathless at his proximity, Elara swallows and whispers, "Gloss – "

But he cuts her off, eyes blazing subtly at her when he breathes, "Katniss reminds me of myself. Of the way I was so confused back then, because I wanted you so badly but I didn't know why."

They stare at each other for a long moment, thinking back on the initial years of their connection. They'd been all over each other, as often as possible. It hadn't been until later when they'd questioned why they wanted each other so much. Because of the purposefully undefined nature of their relationship, neither of them had given it much thought in the beginning, and when they had thought on it, they had done so separately and hadn't share their thoughts.

Elara laughs quietly, nudging him again. The touch is softer this time though, playful almost. He grins at her and nudges her back.

"Do you still want me that badly?" she whispers to him, so quiet that only he can hear.

The question makes him chuckle. He gives her a sideways glance. "Sure, but I'm not confused about what I feel for you anymore, Winston."

The use of her last name makes her smirk. He'd called her by her surname almost exclusively during the first year of their affair. Perhaps it had been a way for him to retain some barrier between them, to keep them separated. She doesn't know, and at this point, it no longer matters.

He pauses, then quietly adds, "I wish I could tell you outright."

But Elara just sighs and murmurs, "You don't have to. I already know."

They fall silent, turning their attention back to the screen. There's not much left to say, at this point, so they just sit there together watching the tributes from District 12 skirt around their own love story. It's a long time before either of them speaks. The minute tick by, broken only when Gloss suddenly says, "One day I'll tell you."

And, surprised yet again, Elara looks at him with a raised eyebrow, and smiles. He presses his mouth down to hide his own smile.

"…Is that a promise?" she wonders in an almost idle fashion, but the both of them know that there's nothing idle about it.

Losing the battle of hiding his smile, Gloss grins at her and quips, "It's whatever you want it to be, Winston."

She laughs and says, "A promise, then. That's what I want."

His eyes flash at her.

"…A promise," he concedes, voice spiraling into a subtle cadence of longing.

It's a shame, really, that when Gloss does end up fulfilling said promise, when he does plainly tell her how much she means to him, it won't be in the setting that either of them expect. No, these words are fated to be said in a tone of hopelessness, in the throes of wretched misery.

* * *

Matilde dies the next day. Gloss watches the orange haired girl hit the ground, mouth foaming from poison. Her eyes stare unseeingly into the sky as her canon goes off. In the end, it had been her own strategy that had brought her death. And – Katniss Everdeen's accidental mistake.

The sound of the canon isn't new to any of the Victors by now. Gloss dreams about it sometimes, when he's having a particularly bad night. The gonging sound reverberates through his head in perfect imitation, and the bodies of his loved ones begin to crumple to the ground. Still, when it goes off this time, the room falls oddly silent. He knows why. It's because there are only three tributes left standing, and the Games will surely be over within a matter of days.

He glances over at his sister, who sits beside him. They look at each other for a long moment before Gloss stands up and heads for the door. The other Victors watch him leave, but none of them question where he is going. None of them are that stupid.

Before he even reaches the District 5 suite, he can hear the sound of glass shattering. Elara's voice is shouting something. There's a hysteric tone to it that makes him walk faster, pushing the door open with a force that makes it slam into the wall. The scene that greets him is not pretty.

Harley is sitting on the couch in front of the TV looking despondent and blank, as if he's a ghost without purpose, blind to the rest of the world. Elara is the completely opposite. She hovers over him, a furious look etched onto her face. Her eyes blaze, fists clench. She's screaming at him – something about him being useless as a mentor. Gloss purses his mouth at the sight.

There's broken glass strewn all over the floor, no doubt individual targets of Elara's anger. He steps right over the shards to grasp her arm and tug her away from Harley, and she immediately turns her furious eyes onto him.

"Let me go," she hisses, wrenching her arm free from his grasp. She's stronger than she looks. Her wiry frame boasts toned muscles that enable her to pull away from Gloss's strong grip before he can lock his fingers around her. It doesn't dissuade him though.

"Elara," he grinds out, voice hinting at the danger that her fit will result in. She needs to calm down before they send Peacekeepers up here. With a forceful pull, he's got her back into his grip, hands grasping her arms tightly as he urges her to face him. When she does, he growls, "You need to calm down."

But she doesn't want to calm down. The avox workers are staring at her as if she's insane, and Ignatius's mouth has dropped open in shock at her violent outburst. The other stylists have fled the room, twittering with fright. She has successfully scared them all off – except Harley, who sits in mournful silence as if he has any right to. He hasn't even done anything to save Graham or Matilde. Not one single thing.

She doesn't know why she's so angry. Maybe it's because Matilde had come so far. She'd thought, for a brief moment, that District 5 might actually get another Victor this year. That she might actually be able to save someone. But she can't seem to save anyone, not even herself.

"You didn't help at all!" she barks at Harley's prone figure, who is still sitting with his head in his hands as if she doesn't exist. It only serves to make her even angrier. She struggles in Gloss's grasp, trying to wrench herself free as she shouts, "You're so _useless_ – I don't even know how you won your Games!"

"Elara, stop it," Gloss demands, snapping her back into his chest for the sole purpose of restraining her. She struggles against his arms and turns to face him with a snarling expression. His face is equally as firm, jaw clenched tight as he stares at her. She doesn't usually lose herself like this. Even when she's angry, Elara Winston maintains an almost frightening sense of calm realism. All he can do is hold her back until her fury passes, because when it does…

He's bore witness to enough of her tirades to know what comes next.

All the Victors are broken. There are none who come out of the arena the same person that goes in. Before her Games, Elara had been innocent. All she'd wanted from life was to get a job in the Grid and move on with her life. But then she'd been Reaped, and her innocence had been stripped away from her like so many petals on a dying flower. She's been broken for years now, only she knows how to pretend otherwise. It is a game that all Victors must play. She's no different.

That why, when Gloss sees her blue eyes fill with tears, he gruffly says to the other occupants in the room, "Clean this mess up."

He heaves her to her room, practically dragging her behind him while the others stare silently at their exit. Elara shouts more insults at Harley until Gloss firmly closes her bedroom door and shuts out the sound of her yelling, and then he watches as she stumbles into the room and sinks down on the floor. He stands there for a moment, taking in the sight of her hunched form, before running a hand through his hair and sighing.

She hears it and sharply seethes, "You don't have to stay. I can deal with my own crap."

Gloss narrows his eyes at her and snaps, "You're acting like a child, Elara."

She spins around to glare at him. He crosses his arms challengingly.

"How dare you – "

"Just listen to me," he cuts in, voice stern and imposing. "You can't go around throwing tantrums like that. It's dangerous. So your tribute died. It happens every single year, Elara. It's never going to change."

She stares at him in betrayed shock, as if she can't believe that he would say that. But Gloss stands his ground, expression set with a certain stubbornness. He isn't going to back off from his standpoint. In another world, she might even agree with him. But the sorrow of losing another tribute, the anger that she's forced to be a part of it, makes her scowl at him in fury.

"…Twenty two," he suddenly says, seemingly out of the blue. She stares at him, silently demanding an explanation to the abrupt words, and he takes a step closer to her. "That's how many tributes Cashmere and I have mentored together. And out of those twenty two kids, only three of them have survived the Games."

She watches him step closer, until the space between them is nearly gone completely. Usually his presence would calm her, but today it only drives her further away. She takes a step back and snarls, "That's great. Congratulations, Gloss. I've been a mentor for eight years now and I haven't saved a single one. So if that's supposed to make me feel better, it doesn't."

His jaw clenches. She watches him take a breath and scoffs at him, but he just reaches out to grasp her arms and calmly tells her, "You're purposefully missing my point and you know it. The Games are rigged against us. I won because the Capitol saw something in me that they wanted. You won because you're gorgeous and smart and they couldn't just let you die." He pauses, and cups her face, pressing his forehead against hers and finishing, "This year, they want Katniss and Peeta. They're obsessed with them. They'll do anything in their power to make one of them a Victor, Elara."

She stares at him with watery eyes and brokenly whispers, "I know."

Of course she does. She's known it from the start, during the Chariot Parade when the Capitol audience had screamed out Katniss's name, when they had swooned at Peeta's confession during his interview, when they had tripped over themselves to sponsor them.

And yet…

"I'm so _tired_, Gloss," she breathes, face crumpling with exhausted emptiness. She falls into his chest and he brings her closer, strong arms surrounding her form as they both sink to the floor.

Clenching her fingers into his shirt, she tearfully says, "I wish I was dead, sometimes."

He tightens his hold of her, ducks his head against the crevice of her neck, and inhales the familiar scent of her skin. Her words would frighten anyone else, but he merely takes them in with a sigh, feeling her cry against him with silent shaking shoulders. She carries with her the weight of the world – they all do. If he could, he would take it from her, but he can't.

Instead, he whispers just as brokenly, "…I know."

Because he does, and he also knows that there's nothing he can say will make her feel better.


	11. Each silvered note the stars astound,

**Chapter Eleven | Each silvered note the very stars astound,**

"_Why, such is love's transgression._

_Grief of mine own lie heavy in my breast,_

_Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest_

_With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown_

_Doth add more grief to too much of mine own."_

_1.1, 184-188 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

"_Tell me about District 1," she asks him one night. They're both coming down from the high of being together, wrapped up in the blankets to stave off the chill of early winter. Gloss isn't used to the cold as much as she is, and he's got the blankets tucked over his chest as they lie side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Soft silence cascades around them, broken only by the sound of her sudden and rather odd question. She's never bothered asking about his home before. She'd never much cared to know more about him, but for some reason she wants to know everything in this moment._

_He turns his head to look at her and asks, "District 1? Why?"_

_It's an understandable question. They've never spoken about their personal lives. Not the ones that aren't dictated by the Capitol, at least. Somehow, it always felt like an invasion of privacy to bring the subject up. Almost as if it is a barrier that shouldn't be crossed._

_Elara is curious, though. Her mother always said that her curiosity would be her undoing._

_She catches his eye and shrugs, lifting her arms over her head in a soft stretch before replying, "We might as well talk about _something_ while we're lying here." There's a slightly sarcastic drawl in her tone that makes him snort._

"_I don't like pillow talk," he tells her gruffly, but the shard of amusement in his gaze informs her that he doesn't really mean it._

_She nudges his side with an elbow and laughs, "Fine. I'll tell you about District 5, then, and you can just lay there and listen until you fall asleep on me."_

_This time, her voice is joking, but her eyes are serious. To be honest, she is waiting for him to fall asleep. He looks exhausted. He'd mentioned before, briefly, that his schedule is hectic this week. That he can't wait to get back home so he can actually sleep. She's suggested that they do this again at some other time if he's so tired, but Gloss had just pulled her into him and that was that. Now, though, his eyes are drooping and his breath is deep, and even though he's blinking at her from the other side of the bed, he looks like he's seconds away from falling asleep._

_Still, he manages a smirk. "Do whatever you want, Winston."_

_She does, as usual. Her stubborn nature is strangely addicting to him, as well as the confident way she rolls over, props herself on her elbows, and begins to spin a picture of her home. To his surprise, he actually finds himself paying close attention to her. She's got a way with words. When he closes his eyes, he could almost imagine the landscape that she paints for him._

"_Of course you've heard about the Coriolanus 9 plant," she begins, resting her chin on her hand. "It's huge – you can see it from anywhere in the district. On a rare day when it's actually sunny, the panels on the sides shine like silver. It's usually overcast, though. There's a gigantic lake just outside the district that we use as our power source – hydroelectrical energy, you know? – and no matter what time of year it is, everything's always cold and damp."_

_Gloss hums dryly, "Sounds awful."_

_She chuckles, "You get used to it. It rains a lot. There's nothing like the sound of the rain though. It's comforting."_

_He opens his eyes to peer at her. "…I hate the rain. It's depressing." It's also rare, in District 1, which is probably one of the reasons he's never developed an appreciation for it._

_Elara raises her eyebrows at him and insists, "It isn't depressing! It's invigorating. Haven't you ever run through a heavy rainstorm before? It makes you feel alive."_

_He thinks she's being a little silly, and he doesn't hide that from her. With a scoff, he mutters, "It's just water."_

_Elara laughs and shakes her head. In a soft voice that's a little more serious, she murmurs, "I do that sometimes. When I need to feel something. I just stand there in the rain and imagine that it's washing everything away…"_

_She doesn't know why she tells him that. While it isn't necessarily a personal secret she keeps to herself, it does feel a bit too personal for their haphazard relationship. She turns her head and picks at a thread that's coming undone from the seam of the pillow in front of her. She can feel Gloss's eyes on her, studying her expression. He doesn't respond for a while, but when he does, it's to quietly admit, "The only time I feel alive is when I'm with you."_

_Surprised, Elara turns to stare at him, eyes wide. He stares right back at her in the very same fearless manner that he often exhibits, before turning back to the ceiling and murmuring, "You look like you think I'm insane."_

_The gruff way he mutters it makes her smirk. She hums wryly and quips, "You _are_ insane."_

_She doesn't tell him that she feels the same way. That being with him makes her feel more alive than she's ever felt, even before her Games. That she's not sure what she'd do without him, whenever she has to come to the Capitol and sell her soul to keep Snow happy. She catches his eye, though, and there's something that looks like understanding in his gaze. Perhaps she doesn't have to tell him. Perhaps he already knows. Why else would she keep coming to see him?_

_He seems amused by her retort. With a chuckle, Gloss mumbles, "Tell me more."_

_She rolls onto her back and sighs, "Well. My parents were scientists. They worked in the Grid, in the hydroelectrical department. That was where I would've wanted to work too, if I didn't get Reaped of course."_

_He peers at her and asks, "What kind of job is it?"_

_She shrugs and explains, "There are a lot of departments. You could be an engineer and develop blueprints for new technology, or be a researcher, or work with the power plants themselves. That's what my father did. My mom was a researcher, though. She was working on a new model when she…died."_

_She trails off for a moment, and then clears her throat and asks, "What would you have done, if you hadn't been Reaped?"_

_Gloss is watching her carefully, knowing that this is a caustic topic. At her question, though, he furrows his brows in contemplation and shrugs, "Not sure. My dad worked at the Factory. I probably would've followed in his footsteps."_

_Everyone knows at least something about District 1's impressive Factory. Like the Coriolanus 9 power plant of District 5, the Factory is a major structure in District 1. She remembers seeing it in the distance during her Victory Tour, though she knows little about what actually goes on inside of it. Turning her head to look at him, she asks, "Doing what?"_

_A wry look catches his eye. He shucks the sheets further up his muscular chest and drawls, "Wouldn't you like to know."_

_Surprised at the sudden joking tone of his voice, Elara laughs aloud and edges closer to him, fitting her body into his side to lean over him. She catches his wrists and tugs them over his head, and he lets her. He could doubtlessly overpower her any time he wants – she's felt the blistering effects of his strength many times in the past – but Gloss merely lays there and allows her to pretend as though she's got the upper hand._

"_I would like to know," she responds, hooking her leg over his waist and rolling on top of him. His eyes dart down her body, appreciating the sight of her above him. She can see it in his gaze, that appreciation. It makes her shiver._

"_This conversation is getting a little circular," he tells her, and grits his teeth when she shifts her hips against his. The thin sheet that separates them is paltry, when he can feel the heat of her core pressed diligently against his._

_She looks beautiful, sitting above him in the dim light that the lone lamp allows. Her skin glows vibrantly, and her hair turns to shards of copper that spiral over her shoulders. She hasn't cut it in a while, and it reaches the tops of her breasts in a thick curtain of ember red. But it's her eyes that make him crazy. They're dark blue in this lighting, and they burn with a desire that is soon pressed into his own skin, his own heart, his own thoughts, as he peers up at her._

_She silently leans down to kiss his cheek, his jaw, his mouth. His hands shift up her body, and soon they are moving together as lovers often do, hips roiling as they exchange breaths for kisses._

_It's only later, when Gloss sleepily rests his head against her breast, that he quietly murmurs, "My father designed furniture for the Factory. They'd send most of it to the Capitol. I'd probably be doing similar work, if I wasn't a Victor."_

_He closes his eyes and wonders what life would have been like, had he been allowed to live out such a role. Elara imagines it too, picturing him sketching out design plans for tables and chairs and operating machinery to build prototypes of the designs himself. She could picture him in a workshop somewhere, hard at work on some new product, dusty from wood shavings, hair strewn into his eyes. She looks down at him and hums, "I could see you as a carpenter."_

_He's got the right build for it. The right demeanor._

_He laughs._

"_Maybe one day," is all he says in reply, but they both know they're empty words._

_One day will never come._

* * *

The Gamemakers are getting impatient. There are only three tributes left: Katniss, Peeta, and Cato from District 2. The Career tribute has been camped out at the cornucopia for days now, and the District 12 pair are heading right towards him. They probably don't realize it. Elara doubts they're aware of anything but the mutts on their heels, chasing them through the forest with eyes that gleam with the remnants of the other fallen children. It's sick, but then again, these are the Hunger Games, and the Capitol does love its dramatic plot twists.

After her outburst the day before, Elara's been keeping to herself. Harley avoids her, sitting himself down in the public viewing room near Chaff and the others who are closer to his own age. She mainly stays put in the District 5 suite, occasionally going down to watch the end of the Games with Johanna, Gloss, or Cashmere. There are only three Victors now who are watching the games with any real interest. Brutus and Enobaria are practically glued to the screen as they root for Cato, whereas Haymitch is taking a quieter but no less occupied role further back, gripping the glass he's constantly drinking from with white knuckles.

Gloss had left Elara in her suite after she'd stopped crying, deciding that it would probably be best if he didn't linger. The others might question why he's locked them both in her bedroom, so he had sent his sister up to check on Elara in his place later that day. Cashmere hadn't complained. She doesn't often say it out loud, but Elara's grown on her over the years.

There's not much to do now but wait for the end. If the Gamemakers keep to their current pace, said end shouldn't be too far off. And, as expected, it is as bloody as it usually is.

Elara watches Cato's death with heavy eyes. Though he isn't her tribute, he's still just a kid. It doesn't matter that he volunteered for this. She can see the fear in his eyes as he drops off the side of the cornucopia, and it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Katniss ends up shooting an arrow into his heart, giving him a quick death. Had she not been merciful, it most likely would have taken a long time before he died. These mutts seem to enjoy playing with their food.

The moment he's gone, the entire arena changes. The dark night that had crept up on them now shifts to bright sunlight, and the mutts howl as they run off, leaving Katniss and an injured Peeta to their fate atop the cornucopia. There's a split second when the both turn to each other with relief in their eyes, thinking that they can both be crowned Victors. Elara leans back and waits for the inevitable announcement that crushes their hopeful expressions, knowing that it will come. The Capitol cannot have two Victors. It would undermine their entire system.

She's not at all surprised when the announcement comes mere moments after. A Gamemaker's voice informs the pair that the deal is off, and only one of them will be crowned the Victor. The expression that captures Katniss's face when she hears this is frightening, almost. Elara thoughtfully rubs her lower lip as she watches the girl. She wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those looks, that's for sure.

"Kill me, then," Peeta tells her. Katniss steps away as if she's been burnt.

"No. I won't," she retorts angrily, and throws down her bow. With frustrated fingers, she wrenches her quiver from her back and tosses it off the side of the cornucopia. It clatters to the ground, hitting the sides of the metal frame loudly. Some of the arrows fall out of it.

Peeta swallows tightly. "Katniss, you have to go home. To Prim, remember? She's waiting for you."

The reminder makes her eyes scrunch with pain, but she still doesn't move. Elara thinks back to what Gloss had said several days before, when they were watching the pair exchange kisses in that cave. Katniss isn't going to kill Peeta. She can see it in her eyes and in the stubborn set of her jaw. It would ruin her and she knows it. She would never forgive herself.

Elara can't help but think that she's a far better person than most as she watches the girl's plight. The average tribute wouldn't hesitate to kill the remaining one if need be. She wouldn't, either. In fact – she hadn't.

She doubts she'll ever forget her last kill. It had been particularly gruesome. She hadn't meant for it to be, but the urging need she'd felt to make it back home alive had been overpowering.

Katniss though…she's calm. Well, as calm as anyone could be, when someone asks you to kill them.

"You've got your family too," Katniss responds. "…You have three brothers."

His eyes flash at her. The family card clearly isn't working, despite it being Katniss's one motivation these past few week. So instead Peeta haltingly says, "I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I killed you."

She clenches her jaw and growls, "I'm not going to – "

"DO IT!" he shouts at her, stepping forward in a threatening manner, as if he's hoping that it will rile up some inert instinct that will get the job done. When she doesn't react, he runs a hand over his face and angrily exclaims, "I love you, Katniss! Don't you get it? If I killed you, I'd never forgive myself. The guilt would crush me."

She raises her chin and staunchly says, "It would crush me, too."

But he just laughs and reaches out to hold onto her arms, grasping her tightly as he haggardly tells her, "You'd get over it, eventually. You're strong, Katniss. You're the one who deserves to live."

Her eyes blaze at him. She looks like she wants to yell at him – scream, shove him off her and drag him closer all at the same time. Her emotions play out over her face as she falls silent. The Gamemakers let her think. No doubt they're glued to their screens right now, obsessed with watching the tragic end of this love story. Katniss suddenly reaches into her pocket, and what she pulls out is very tragic indeed.

Elara stares at the nightlock berries with a blank expression. Does the girl mean to give him an end that does not require her to kill him herself? Or – does she mean to end her own life so that he can live another day? She frowns, watching intently as Katniss holds up the berries. Peeta looks equally as confused, until Katniss says, "If we refuse to kill each other, then let's end this on our own terms."

Elara raises an eyebrow as she watches the girl pluck a berry from the pile and hand it to Peeta. They both take one. It's almost poetic, when Katniss smirks and drawls, "May the odds be ever in your favor."

Then, with matching looks of resolution, Katniss and Peeta both pop the berries into their mouths. The instant they do, a Gamemaker quickly announces, "Wait! Wait – ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Victors of the 74th Hunger Games!"

And, as if Katniss had merely been waiting for the words, she spits the berry out. Peeta does the same. Elara stares in total shock. She can't believe that the Capitol fell for their ruse! That they're actually crowning two Victors! With shaking legs, she stands up, still staring at the screen as trumpets blare victoriously and the pair of District 12 tributes are lifted out of the arena on a hovercraft.

This is unprecedented. It's never happened before in the history of the Games. There have never been two Victors in one year. She can't help but wonder what this will mean for the rest of them. Surely Snow won't let this go? He won't let Katniss and Peeta off the hook, but will his rage extend to the other Victors too? She feels at once sick, and she rushes off to the rooftop immediately to get some air and to think upon this new twist.

That's where Johanna finds her, an hour later.

"Your lover is looking everywhere for you," she says by way of greeting, fearlessly saying the word aloud. She knows that it is too windy for the words to be captured, but Elara still cringes a little. She's used to the fear that's attached to the term – used to being wary about listeners.

"I'm not hiding," she responds in a clipped tone, and Johanna raises an eyebrow.

"So I see," she says. They fall silent.

After a long moment, Elara murmurs, "Snow must be furious."

The reason for Elara's behavior is made clear at the words. Johanna nods, understanding crossing through her eyes as she glances over at her friend. Johanna herself doesn't have anything to worry about. She doesn't have anyone to lose – Snow made sure of that years ago. But Elara has Amelia, and Gloss, and Snow surely knows at least a little of her affair with the Victor from 1. He might not know just how much she cares for him, but he must be aware that they fool around on the side. He must know that Gloss means _something_ to her.

"Katniss and Peeta will get the brunt of his fury," Johanna reasons. She's right, of course, but Elara wonders if Snow will turn his anger on the rest of them, too.

"Still," she murmurs, looking over at Johanna with careful eyes. "…What if – "

With a roll of her eyes, Johanna cuts her off with an abrupt, "Just stay under his radar, Winston, and you'll be fine."

Elara sighs. She should've known better than to turn to Johanna for comforting words. The Victor is hardly accustomed to easing worries. Still, there is something uplifting about Johanna's brusque nature. It makes Elara feel better, even if it's only because of the familiarity of the woman's tone.

It's something, at least, but it doesn't help her from avoiding the nightmares, when they come later on.

She dreams of the boy she'd killed, in order to go home. She'd been frozen with fear when she'd kicked the tribute off of her and into the lake that she had rigged. Her knowledge of electricity had come in handy that day. She had used the lake as a conduit, had wired it to create the ultimate trap that would lure her victim in and do the job for her. But his screams as he writhed in the water, as his body was fried and the electricity shot into his heart…she will never forget the agony of his voice, or the way he had begged for her to get him out.

They were just kids playing a game neither of them wanted to play; fighting like little Gods who dictated life and death. She'd been lucky. She had gotten enough sponsors by that point to fund her trap, but it had cost her in other ways.

She wakes up tangled in her sheets, a scream blossoming in her throat. Swallowing it down takes tremendous effort, but she does. She stares up at the dark ceiling, a heaving, panting mess of fear and guilt. It takes her a total of five seconds before she's throwing herself out of bed and stumbling to the door. Morphling, alcohol, medications – she's tried them all, but there is only one cure that makes her nightmares vanish entirely. It's a cure she doesn't often have access to, because he lives hundreds of miles away from her.

Gloss is sleeping when she silently enters his room on the District 1 floor. She's careful when she slides into his bed. She's learned from past mistakes to not make any sudden movements when he's in this vulnerable state, lest she wants to startle him. There's been many times where he'd had his hands around her throat, thinking that she was a facet of his own nightmares. She's learned how to approach him now, how to keep her movements quiet and gentle even as she lays herself down on his chest and pulls the sheets over her body.

He shifts beneath her, inhaling sharply as he becomes aware of her presence, and she quickly whispers, "It's only me."

The sound of her voice calms him immediately. He wraps her up in his arms and exhales slowly, head falling back into the pillow. Silence falls between them, until he tiredly inquires, "Nightmare?"

Her only response is a hum of agreement. She's already close to falling back asleep, now that she's in his protective grasp. Whenever she's with him, it's like he drives away her nightmares with the sheer force of his presence. He works better than any of the medications she's tried. It used to confuse her, before she figured out why he makes her feel so safe.

He doesn't ask her if she wants to talk about it. Instead he just sleepily drags her closer, tucks her head beneath his chin, and drowsily mumbles, "'M here now. You're safe."

Nestled against his body as she is, Elara believes him. Gloss is safety personified.

Silence falls again. His breathing evens out. She thinks he's fallen back asleep, so when she buries her face against his brawny shoulder and whispers, "I don't want to go back to District 5," she assumes that he doesn't hear her.

She's surprised, then, when he sleepily murmurs, "It's just for a month or two. Our schedules will line up eventually."

Lifting herself up on her elbow, Elara looks down at his face. His eyes are closed, his expression set in sleepy peace. She leans down to kiss his cheek, allowing her lips to linger against his skin as she breathes, "Wouldn't it be nice if we could just see each other whenever we wanted?"

His eyes flutter open. His room is dark, but they're close enough to see each other, especially with the dim glow of the city that comes in through the window. She can see the wariness enter his eyes, the slight purse of his lips when he whispers, "It's dangerous to talk like that, Elara."

She exhales, a long sigh that hints at her exhaustion. It isn't exhaustion from lack of sleep. This time, it's a bone-deep fatigue that consumes her far more solidly. She's so _tired_ of her life. She's tired of having to mentor children who are destined to die. She's tired of having to rely on her revolting clients as a means to see Gloss again. She's tired of being stuck in District 5, wondering where he is or how he's doing. She's tired of not being able to love him, of having to lie to the country that she feels only a sisterly love towards the man she'd give her entire self to without question.

Gloss sighs too. He reaches up to cup her cheek, eyes locking with hers through the darkness. He's heard that sigh before, many times. He's tired, too.

"Come here," he murmurs, because there's nothing to say, really. He can't tell her that things will change, that everything will get easier, because it won't. He can't tell her that if he had the choice, he'd never leave her side, because that would only bring on more pain.

She doesn't argue as she nestles back against him. He tucks the blankets around them and pulls her close, turning his face to press a kiss to her forehead and whisper, "Go to sleep."

And she does. She falls asleep quickly in his arms, once she forces her mind to quiet itself of its incessant worries. But Gloss – he remains awake for a long while, even as his body longs to follow her into sleep. He memorizes the warm press of her body against his, the feeling of their entwined fingers, the even sound of her soft breathing. He memorizes her scent, the softness of her hair, the way she fits into his arms like the missing puzzle piece he's been searching for his whole life.

Tomorrow, they will part ways again. The Games are over, and there's little need for them to stick around in the Capitol. He doesn't know when he'll see her again. How many weeks will pass before he'll get the chance to hold her like this? How many endless nights will he endure without her by his side?

So he just lies there and listens to her even breath, and feels her warmth, and tries to stay awake for as long as he can, because he knows that their time together is running out.


	12. And makes me burn, my soul made bright

**Chapter Twelve | And makes me burn; my very soul made bright.**

"_He that is stricken blind cannot forget_

_The precious treasure of his eyesight lost."_

_1.1, 213-232 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Elara has barely returned to her Capitol apartment after a night with another client when her phone rings. Based on previous experiences, she's always a little wary whenever she hears the sound. Oftentimes, the person on the other end is not someone she wants to converse with. Usually, the only people who call her at her apartment are the people in charge of her schedule. They usually call to inform her about changes or additions to her routine, and most of the time, those alterations are purely negative._

_When she hears the phone go off this time, she's naturally suspicious, but she knows that she can't just ignore it. There's no escape from her circumstances._

"…_Hello?" she asks into the receiver, holding the phone up to her ear with a wariness that is born of many past experiences. She's expecting to hear the cold voice of her scheduler, an unnamed woman in charge of organizing her clients, but the voice that responds to her is not that woman. It is someone entirely different._

"_We're going out for a drink," Cashmere briskly informs her. "Electrika, thirty minutes. Don't be late."_

_Utterly confused for several reasons, Elara blurts, "Cashmere?"_

_The woman on the other end verbally scoffs, as if she thinks Elara is a total idiot, and drawls, "Did you hear me? Don't be late."_

_The line goes dead before Elara can deny her demand. She has no desire to go out again tonight considering that she's only just gotten back. She would much prefer taking a hot shower and falling into bed. But Cashmere has never called her like this before. Ever since their impromptu meeting at Gloss's apartment several months ago, the District 1 Victor has avoided Elara with a singular effort. It's more than a little strange to receive an invitation from her, even if it's obviously forced. Elara would be a fool to ignore it. It might be her only chance to get to know her. She's not silly enough to think that she might actually become friends with the woman, but perhaps going out for some drinks might ease the tension between them._

_With a sigh, Elara heads to the bathroom to take a quick shower and scrub her night away. When she's done, she pulls on a knee-length dress and throws her hair into a messy bun. The bar that Cashmere has in mind is only a few blocks away from her apartment, so Elara just decides to walk it. In the darkness, she's not as easily recognized by the silly creatures that inhabit this city, and she arrives at the club only a few minutes past ten o'clock._

_Cashmere is waiting for her in one of the booths, and she isn't alone. Elara stumbles a bit at the sight of Johanna Mason, a Victor from District 7 that she's only had a few run-ins with so far. The younger woman is aggressive and stand-offish. To be honest, Elara's avoided her at the various functions she's forced to attend. There aren't many of them anyway. Johanna rarely visits the Capitol. Rumor has it that Snow had tried to make her a prostitute after she won her Games, and when she'd flatly refused him, he had her entire family killed off. The only positive aspect of the event is that Johanna has a freedom that is rare among Victors: Snow doesn't have anything to threaten her with. He can't force her hand. Elara wonders if it's worth it, living such a ghostlike life with only yourself for company._

_When she approaches the table, Cashmere looks up and says, "There you are. What took you so long?"_

_With a raised brow, she retorts, "You said thirty minutes."_

_She slides into the booth. Cashmere pushes a drink her way – a neon green concoction that takes like pineapple – and says, "You know Johanna, I'm sure."_

_Johanna catches her eye with a wide smirk that makes Elara shrug. She merely smiles back, determined not to show any signs of weakness. Frankly, she feels a bit trapped between these two women, as if she's been lured into something. She clearly has the disadvantage here, considering that she doesn't know either of them as well as they know each other. It's disconcerting, but Elara isn't going to let them one-up her._

"_We met in District 5 on your Victory Tour. You pissed the mayor off so badly that he wouldn't stop complaining about you for weeks," Elara drawls sarcastically. Johanna smirks wider._

"_He's a fucking idiot," is all she says in response, as if that explains everything. According to Johanna Mason, it probably does._

"_Why'd you invite me?" Elara asks, turning to stare at Cashmere with a careful expression. She's never had much to do with the other Victors, minus Gloss of course, and their relationship is purely sexual. She wonders if that has something to do with this. Why else would Cashmere actively ask to hang out with her?_

_The woman just shrugs and twirls her martini glass in her hand, staring at Elara with unreadable eyes. There's something in them that makes Elara distinctly uncomfortable, as if she's being sized up and weighed._

"_My brother seems to like you," is all she says, "so I thought I'd try to figure out why."_

_Ah, so she was right. Elara barks out a short laugh and takes a sip of her drink. The underlying taste of vodka is subtle around the pineapple flavor. She's never been a huge fan of pineapples. She never even knew what one was before she became a Victor._

"_You shouldn't read too far into it," Elara tells her after a moment. She shifts in her seat and shrugs, "It's just sex. That's all."_

_Even as she says it, some part of her rebels at the thought. She wrangles it down though, before it can cement itself into her brain. Her affair with Gloss doesn't need to be examined too closely. They've both spoken about it. They agree that it's only a form of comfort – a way to keep the nightmares at bay. There's nothing more to it, and that's exactly how it should be._

_Cashmere doesn't look convinced though. There's something in her expression that looks almost like disbelief. She seems baffled, like she can't quite understand Elara's words. It lingers there for only a moment before she hides it with a blank expression, but Elara sees it._

"_You don't believe me?" she asks, eyes darting over to Johanna's figure. The Victor from 7 is leaning forward, resting her chin on her palm as if this is the most interesting thing she's witnessed in ages. Elara glowers at her and turns back to Cashmere with a pointed expression._

_Cashmere just shrugs. "…I'm not sure what I believe," she admits. It's true. She doesn't know. All she knows is that there's something different about her brother. Something has changed within him. He's less angry. He doesn't stare off into space as much as he had before. And now, when he does, there's a lighter gleam to his eyes that looks almost happy. Cashmere doesn't want to admit that it's because of Elara's presence, but she's the only variable that has changed in his life. What else could it be?_

_She doesn't tell her any of this though. Instead, Cashmere just says, "Anyway, I figured that if you're going to be hanging around my brother, I should at least get to know who you are."_

_Elara blinks at her. It's sound reasonable, she supposes, especially since she doesn't think her relations with Gloss are about to end._

"_And I'm just here to get a few laughs," Johanna adds with a sarcastic smirk, spearing a glance at Elara, who rolls her eyes at her, unimpressed._

"_Good to know," she quips back, her voice equally as sarcastic. Johanna snorts._

_As Cashmere takes a sip of her martini, Elara wonders, "So what do Victors talk about in their spare time, anyway? I've only really hung out with Finnick so far, and I've got a feeling he isn't on the same level as most of you."_

_At this, Cashmere smirks, "Finnick's in a world of his own. He's the Capitol's Golden Boy. He can do no wrong."_

_Elara raises an eyebrow at her, and Johanna jumps in to add, "I guess having good looks is part of Snow's criteria. I wouldn't know."_

_Elara silently disagrees. Johanna may not be classically beautiful, but there's a rough attractiveness to her features. Her eyes are bright, her face fierce. There's a sharpness to her that Elara finds familiar, because she possesses it too. Cashmere on the other hand – she's gorgeous with her long blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes. Far more physically appealing than her. Not that Elara minds overmuch. Johanna is right about one thing: having good looks is a criteria, it seems. From what she's heard about Cashmere, from both Gloss as well as her own gossiping clients, the female Victor is nearly as popular as Finnick is. The only difference is that Finnick is far more vocal about his popularity. He seems to treat his life as if it's a game, almost._

_Johanna studies Elara carefully from across the table, and murmurs, "What I'm most curious about is your relationship with Cashmere's brother. Do tell."_

_Elara immediately stiffens. Floundering, she pauses and flashes a glance over at Cashmere herself, who is sitting beside her with flat eyes. It isn't exactly a winning expression._

"…_I wouldn't call it something as pedestrian as a relationship," Elara mutters gruffly, turning back to eye Johanna sharply. "Snow would probably have our heads if he thought we meant anything by it."_

_At this, Cashmere cuts in with an equally sharp, "Yes, he would. So make sure you don't fall in love. Gloss doesn't need an emotional idiot hanging off his every word. His ego's too big for that as it is."_

_Johanna smirks, clearly agreeing with the last part, if nothing else. Elara just sighs. She's frankly tired of having this conversation at this point. What her and Gloss do in their spare time is none of their concern. And besides, sex is just sex. It doesn't have to mean anything, and it certainly doesn't have to mean that she'll fall for him. The mere thought is ridiculous._

_With a fair amount of confidence in her voice, Elara lifts her chin and staunchly says, "I'll never fall in love."_

_She wouldn't do that to herself. Her logical brain tells her that should she ever fall prey to the whims of such an emotion, Snow's governmental system would use her weakness to the very end. The only problem is that love has a terrifying tendency of defying all logic, and even Elara Winston cannot ignore its call._

_Those words will come back to bite her later on, because – she doesn't know it yet, but she's already falling._

* * *

"I'll miss you," Elara tells Johanna, her stoic, fearsome friend who hardly bats an eye at her expression of affection. The Victor from 7 just gruffly rolls her eyes and pushes Elara back from the hug she attempts to bestow upon her.

"Stop being emotional," Johanna aggressively tells her with a scoff. Elara laughs. Johanna will probably never return the words that flow from Elara's lips, but the way her eyes soften just slightly tells Elara everything she needs to know. Victors. They're all incapable of admitting to their own feelings. She knows this personally.

Cashmere gives her a hug on Elara's way out. Harley lopes on ahead of her to where the car waits to take them to the train station. He's already said his goodbyes to Chaff and the others that he's friends with, leaving Elara to say her own farewells.

She wraps her arms around Cashmere, the woman she's become unlikely friends with, and murmurs, "See you in a few months."

Cashmere nods and pulls back, sending Elara a little smile before she whispers, "I'll take care of him for you." Elara smiles brightly back, if not a little tearfully.

"I know you will," she returns. Cashmere will always take care of Gloss. It's just what she does.

Something catches Cashmere's attention behind Elara. It's something that makes the other Victor send her friend a firm nod before edging away, leaving Elara in the company of the man who is silently waiting for her. As she approaches Gloss, she tries to keep the pain of their imminent parting from her features, but she's not sure she's successful. Gloss turns to face her with a knowing look on his expression.

They don't touch each other – they're in the middle of the Tribute Center's lobby, and dozens of Victors, Peacekeepers, and Game Officials surround them. Instead, they just idle there together for a long moment before Gloss murmurs, "I'll let you know when I get my next schedule."

She swallows tightly and nods. Silence drops between them again.

"…Cashmere's waiting," Elara breathes, exhaling heavily as she glances over to where the blonde Victor casually stands by the doors.

Gloss glances over too, but he doesn't make a move to join her. He only says, "It's only a few months. We can write each other."

Elara forces herself to smile. Receiving his letters and phone calls is a wonderful thing, but she wishes they didn't have to be parted at all. Still, she knows she must return to District 5. Amelia is waiting for her, and lord only knows how much that girl needs a little supervision.

She reaches out to squeeze his hand – the only form of comfort they are able to garner in this crowded room. They had said their proper goodbyes early this morning, before Elara had snuck back to her own floor. She wishes they had a little more time though.

Gloss's hand is larger than hers, and engulfs her fingers with a warmth that she is very familiar with. He squeezes her back gently, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand as he says, "How about I call you tonight? Make sure you get back to your district okay. Snow can't fault me for that, seeing as we're…_friends."_

Elara's mouth lights up with an amused smile. The tone he'd uses when saying that last word makes her bite back a laugh. She doubts very much that they've _ever_ been friends – at least not in any conventional way. He smirks back at her, clearly as amused as she is. Their relationship is so much more complicated than that.

"Tonight then," she responds swiftly, and pulls her hand away from his before people can start questioning the lengthy touch.

He lets her go somewhat reluctantly, knowing that it will be several months before he will feel her skin against his once more. And then, without another word, for Gloss is hardly the type to drag out his goodbyes more than necessary, he sends her a lingering look before ambling off to where his sister is waiting. Elara just watches him go, lifting her hand to wave to Cashmere once more before the siblings walk out of the Training Center lobby.

Their time has come to a swift end. Three weeks hav passed so quickly. The life-altering events of the Games already seems like a distant memory as Elara and Harley board their train and are whisked back to District 5. The moment she steps onto the rainy platform where the train drops them off, it feels as though the last few weeks hadn't even happened at all, and were instead just a figment of a dream. But she could never dream up her time with Gloss. She isn't that creative, and she'd like to think she's not that girlish, either.

Amelia is presumably at school when Elara returns to the house. At least, she hopes the girl is. She can't even count how many times her sister has skipped classes just to go out and wander aimlessly around the district, getting into trouble left and right. That girl needs to get her priorities straightened out before something happens.

But too tired to wonder if Amelia is actually being a stellar student today or not, Elara just opts to get changed into something more comfortable and unpack her duffle bag. It's still the middle of the afternoon, and Gloss won't call her until tonight. She already misses him despite only being separated for a matter of hours, and the knowledge that it will be months before she sees him again makes her heart clench painfully. She just can't help it.

She couldn't say with any precision when she had fallen for him. The layers of her affection are not so black and white as to set aside any specific point in time. Somewhere between the first time his mouth had brushed over hers and the many nights spent tangled together between sheets, love had sprouted like a clinging weed that refused to wilt. She is numb without him, as if the grey rain outside of her window is a perfect reflection of her world without his presence.

When Amelia returns home several hours later, Elara is cleaning up the kitchen. It's still too early to think about making dinner, but her hands are itching for something to occupy herself with. It's always like this after the Games. The combination of nightmares brought to the surface and the knowledge of a long separation between her and Gloss ahead of her is not a good one. She is restless.

"Oh God. You're cleaning again?" Amelia asks when she steps through the front door and sees her sister scrubbing furiously at the smudge marks on the refrigerator. She knows better than most how Elara gets this time of the year. Like clockwork, the memories of her Games pester her until she gets so crazy that the only thing that successfully distracts her is cleaning the entire house from top to bottom like an insane germaphobe.

Elara glances at her sister and demands, "Where were you? School got out two hours ago." She knows she sounds like an overbearing mother, but Amelia is used to that, too. Another side-effect this time of year.

She rolls her eyes and snorts, "Unlike you, I have friends." Then, throwing her backpack haphazardly against the wall, she strides over to the fridge and bumps Elara out of the way to hunt down a drink. Elara glowers at her when she pulls out an overpriced fruit drink that she no doubt bought because her sister hadn't been around to stop her

"I have friends, they just live far away," is her grumbled response as she watches Amelia with narrowed eyes. Amelia just smirks.

"That's exactly what someone with no friends would say," she retorts, and tips the drink back to take a gulping sip.

Elara pushes her out of the way and turns back to the fridge with renewed purpose, deciding not to question her about where she'd bought the expensive drink and why she thought it was such a good idea to waste their money on overpriced groceries. Honestly. She steps out of the district for only a couple of weeks and Amelia takes full control. She shouldn't be so surprised.

"Don't you have homework to do?" Elara asks, sounding grumpy and impatient as she angrily scrubs Amelia's recent fingerprints from the silver handle.

The question makes her sister scoff flippantly, and she decides that she shouldn't be surprised about that, either. Amelia is quite the character, and not always in a good way.

"I just got home," she complains, walking into the living room and throwing herself onto the couch. She blindly gropes for the remote as she mutters, "It was so nice not having you around…"

Elara hears her and throws the rag she's holding at her. Amelia just glowers from over the back of the couch and throws it back.

A while later, they're sitting down to a paltry dinner of cooked rice and vegetables because Amelia hadn't thought to buy actual food while Elara's been gone. Elara's griping about it to her blasé sister when the phone in the kitchen blares to life, and she nearly falls right out of her chair when she tries to get up too quickly. She's been waiting for the phone to go off all day. He said he'd call her.

From the frantic, eager gleam in Elara's eyes, Amelia must realize the truth of the matter, because she's out of her chair and grabbing the phone mere seconds before Elara gets to it, lifting it to her ear before Elara can stop her.

"Hello?" she smirks, drawling out the word as she gives Elara a shit-eating grin.

Elara glares at her and tries to grab the phone, saying, "Amelia I swear to God – "

"No way, you've been a crabby mess all day and this is my way of getting back at you for making me clean the shower!" she retorts, and presses the phone closer.

Gritting her teeth, Elara exclaims, "It was disgusting and you never do anything around here! Now give me the phone!"

On the other line, Gloss bites back a laugh and says, "Hey, Amelia. How's it going?" He can hear Elara's furious words through the ear piece and can just imagine the argument they're having. The two of them are hilarious, though Gloss only gets to listen to them rarely. He doesn't call often because it would be a little suspicious.

Amelia quips, "Great, Gloss! Is District 1 treating you well?"

He chuckles, hearing the muffled sound of Elara trying to wrangle the phone from Amelia's grasp. "It's the same as ever. Is your sister making you clean now? Tell her that's a torturous thing to do." He almost laughs out loud when she drawls his words back to Elara, whose angry tones seem to reflect her response well enough without words.

After a moment of static, Elara's voice crisply comes onto the other end as she shoves Amelia out of the way. "Gloss?"

The sound of her voice is like a balm to him, despite it only being a few hours since last he heard it. It's funny, really, what only a few hours can do.

"Elara," he returns, and chuckles, "Terrorizing your sister, I see." There's a sliver of amusement in his voice that makes Elara roll her eyes.

With a huff that crackles through the phone, she retorts, "Please. It's not like you don't do the exact same thing. I haven't forgotten about that time you put hair dye into Cashmere's shampoo."

Said incident occurred several years ago during a stint at the Capitol, in which both siblings were scheduled to be there at the same time. They often are – the Capitol does love their Victor siblings. Cashmere had aggravated Gloss so much during one of those trips that Gloss had come up with some crazy prank where he put pink hair dye into his sister's shampoo, and Cashmere's blonde hair had unfortunately suffered as a result. Not that she let it bother her in public, though. Some exasperated comments to Caesar were all that she said about the incident when he had laughingly inquired into it, but Elara knew for certain that she had pummeled Gloss the first moment she could. The blonde Victor from District 1 is utterly fearsome when she wants to be. The Capitol adored her new hair color, though. She had started a trend that lasted several months long, in which most of the pink hair dye seemed to have disappeared from the shelves overnight.

Gloss snickers over the phone and playfully quips, "She was asking for it. Besides, she got me back good. I think I still have a bruise from where she punched me."

Elara hums dryly in response. If they were in person and not being potentially recorded, she might tell him that she knows for a fact that he doesn't have a bruise. She knows his body more intimately than her own.

"So what have you been up to today, besides making your sister clean the shower?" he drawls, fighting back a smile as he opens his fridge to check its contents. Cashmere had left about half an hour ago to pick up some groceries down at the corner store several streets away from the Victor's Village, but he's too hungry to wait for her to return.

As he takes out some sandwich fixings, Elara grumbles, "I was just – " only to be cut off as Amelia shouts, _"She was cleaning like a maniac all freaking day, Gloss!" _Her voice is distant but Elara's annoyed rebuke is not, and he laughs aloud at the way she immediately snaps at Amelia and tells her to go do her homework.

It's funny, really, how lively that household seems to be all the time. He doesn't call as often as he'd like to, but every time he does it seems that Amelia is verbally getting into some sort of trouble and Elara spends every other second snapping at her around her conversation with him. He knows sibling relationships very well, but his relationship with Cashmere is a little different. Maybe it's because they're both older, only a year apart in age, while Elara and Amelia are nearly eight years apart and Amelia is going through a rebellious stage (or so Elara dryly informs him).

In any case, he doesn't tell Elara this, but listening to her relationship with Amelia is part of the reason he loves calling her like this. It's not merely amusing, it's also endearing. Maybe he's strange, but he likes the way her voice gets all pinched with frustration. Amelia is an endless source of it.

The sound of a door shuts, and Elara complains, "I've been home for a matter of hours and she's already getting on my nerves."

He chuckles. "That's what sisters do, Winston." The use of her surname makes her smile. He rarely uses it anymore unless he's feeling playful.

She sighs. "I miss you and Cash already. You'll let me know when you get your schedules, right?"

Snow always sends them their schedules relatively quickly upon their return to their districts. The schedules detail when they're expected to be in the Capitol, what clients they'll have, and what the time slots for them are. They're usually quite detailed. Besides nightly clients, they also have interviews and photoshoots during the daytime, too. Snow wants to make sure that his Victors are in the public eye during their time in his city. He certainly makes full use of them.

On the other end of the phone, Gloss drums his fingers over a thick file currently laying on top of the counter in his kitchen, and slowly lies, "Yeah sure. I'll let you know."

The lie slips from his lips before he even realizes he's saying it, for he already has his schedule. It had been sitting demurely on the sideboard when he had stepped through the front door, his name written on it with a flourish of black ink. A matching one had been waiting for Cashmere too. They don't usually receive their new schedules for a week or two after the Games season. He had been surprised to see it there, idly waiting for him in an almost innocent, harmless manner. There is nothing harmless about it, though. It's filled with dark orders and the names of all his future demons for the next six months.

His eyes move over the first page of it, which gives a rundown of the weeks he's been 'invited' to the Capitol. The further into the file, the more detailed it becomes, but he hasn't looked through it all yet. His eyes linger on the first date that calls for his return. It is four months away.

He doesn't lie to her because he wants to; he lies because he needs to. Because if he doesn't, he'll have to wonder about how he'll get through four months without her. How many nightmares await him without her to soothe them away? How many sleepless nights will result because of her absence in his bed and in his arms? He already misses her so damn much that it almost hurts to hear her voice now, as if she is only inches away from him. But – she's not. She's a hundred miles off, in a house he's never seen, in a room he's never walked through, in a district he's only been to once.

And suddenly four months feels like an eternity, and it turns Elara Winston into a ghost that he's not sure even exists, because he can't hold her or feel her or touch her, and he would give anything to do exact that.

"Gloss?" Elara quietly asks, breaking the drawn out silence that has forged a path between them. There's a strange tone to her voice and he wishes he could see her face, because it's hard to tell what emotion is behind it.

He clears his throat and pushes the schedule away so that he doesn't have to look at it, instead turning his gaze out of the large kitchen window that looks out into the courtyard of the Village. He wonders, very briefly, what it would be like if Elara lived here instead of in District 5. Why couldn't she have been born in District 1? She could have lived right across the street from him, and he'd never have to yearn for her again, nor feel the peculiar pain of her absence rattle through him in an endless cycle.

Suddenly, almost randomly, she tells him, "It's raining over here." But he knows there's nothing random about the words. He remembers their conversation about the rain from years before, in a sliver of a moment that belonged to them when they were in the Capitol together. It was a harrowingly brief moment, really, in the grand scheme of things – but it was theirs.

He smiles and playfully asks, "Are you going to go run around in it?"

She laughs. "I might just. They say it's going to thunder later."

He shakes his head and quips, "Is this what we've resorted to now? Talking about the weather?"

His tone makes her smirk. In a tone that is just slightly more complex than a tone used between friends, Elara murmurs, "…Too bad we can't talk about what I'd like to talk about."

The inuendo of her of her voice is startlingly clear. It doesn't exactly take Gloss long to work it out, and when he does, he closes his eyes and exhales lowly, his mind immediately swept up with memories of bedsheets and her. How is it possible, he wonders, that he wants her so badly again? It's only been a few hours since he saw her face, and yet his heart feels like its burning in his chest for want of her, as if it is an inferno of fire. To just catch a glimpse of her again, even for a moment, to see the gleam of her bright blue eyes, to feel her fingers graze his skin…

"I guess we'll have to wait just a little while," he responds after a moment. His voice is low like hers, pitched just so in a way that hints at emotions that far surpass the usual brand of friendship that they pretend to possess. She shivers at the sound of it, just as caught up in her desires as he is, and hums.

She doesn't realize, yet, how many months they will actually have to wait. He will save her from that knowledge for now, because to him, it is a curse that he wishes he could lift from her shoulders, at least for the time being.

It's almost amusing how badly he wants to go back to the Capitol, the place that is full of demons and monsters; the place that haunts him in every waking moment, and every moment spent in sleep as well. For as much as he loathes the city that Snow has created, the Capitol is also filled with memories that are not so very bad after all, simply because they are full of her.

"I'll see you soon," he tells her, even though he knows he won't. For now, he's content to pretend.

Elara quietly murmurs, "Yeah. I…miss you. And Cashmere." The addition of his sister's name isn't lost on him. He knows she only says it just in case someone is listening in on their conversation. It's a feeble attempt to cover up the obvious undercurrent of their words, but it is just the nature of their relationship.

He wonders if that will ever change, or if they'll be forced to skirt around the edges of their affection for all of eternity.

"…We both miss you too," is all he says in response – another feeble attempt, because they both know that he's not talking about his sister at all, but himself.

When he hangs up the phone a moment later and returns his gaze to the courtyard outside, he tries to picture Elara there, sitting on the porch across the way beneath the hot desert sun.

But – like a ghost, she disappears before he can imagine her form there, and Gloss is left staring sightlessly into the dusk, feeling just as lost as ever.


	13. If you are a storm, then let me say this

**Chapter Thirteen | If you are a storm, then let me say this:**

"_If I profane with my unworthiest hand_

_This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this;_

_My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand_

_To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."_

_1.5, 94-97, Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Elara has grown accustomed to the second life she lives in the Capitol. She doubts she'll ever get used to it, really, but she no longer wanders around the city aimlessly when she is there, confused about what her purpose is in this vast place that is so different from her home. The people no longer make her cringe. Their flamboyant fashions have become almost normal to her. Sometimes, she even finds herself amused by what these creatures come up with. So far, the most bizarre trend has been the ostrich features that they'd been obsessed with a few months back. They were everywhere on the streets, making every Capitolite appear like giant colorful birds prancing around in an otherwise slate grey world._

_No – she hasn't gotten used to this strange city and these shallow people, but they no longer shock her. She still gets shocked by other things, though._

_She's cringing every other step as she walks down the hall to where her apartment awaits, nestled high in one of the skyscrapers on the East End where most of the wealthier citizens live. Most of the Victors live in this part of the city because of their vaulted social status, though as far as Elara knows, she's the only person on this side of the neighborhood. To be fair, she only knows the location of one other Victor's apartment, so she's not entirely sure._

_She's been in the Capitol for about two weeks now, and has another four days to go before she can return to District 5. This is one of her longer visits. Usually, Snow only invites her for a week or so at a time, but it's pre-Games season and the Capitol is already preparing for the upcoming Hunger Games. The Reaping is still a ways off, but it hardly matters to these creatures. They are already hosting parties left and right, eagerly chattering about what this year's Games will bring and what sort of Victor will be crowned at the end of them. Like clockwork every year, the Capitol turns its attentions to the one event that they've all been waiting for, excited to watch yet another round of children meet their deaths in bloody and horrific ways. And, like clockwork, their attention is drawn not only to the upcoming Games, but also to the current Victors as well._

_That's why her current stay is so long. Her number of scheduled clients is already long as it is, but Snow gives allowances during this time of year so that last minute clients can be accommodated for around her schedule. She knows it's the same for the other Victors who are forced into this life, but she still loathes it, primarily because many of those last minute clients are…different._

_It's odd, really, but Elara has noticed that there are a few variations in the types of clients who buy her. Many of the scheduled ones are high ranking socialites or CEOs. Those are the types who turn to her for pleasure because they don't get it at home. Then there are the ones who do, but buy her services just because they want the experience of bedding a Victor. And then – there are those whose peculiar tastes make them sexual pariahs, and they turn to the Victors because they know that they can't be turned away._

_Unfortunately for her, she had one of those tonight._

_They aren't all bad. Sometimes their strange tastes extend merely to lingerie or dirty talk or barking orders. Those, she can handle. But sometimes their preferences are darker, fouler, and involve a sort of physical pain and humiliation that leaves her scarred in ways that don't just mar her skin._

_She swallows back a wave of disgust at the recent memories that pluck at her mind. Her client tonight had been one of the worst she can recall. Her body screams in pain with every step, and it takes her far longer than usual to make it to her apartment door. When she finally gets there, it takes her a few minutes to focus on remembering her passcode. Her mind is in shambles just like her body. Hours of the particular torture she had underwent has taken its toll, and she's so exhausted that she can feel it all the way down to her bones._

_Somehow, she manages to open the door. She doesn't get very far though._

"_Elara?" Gloss's voice sounds, and she holds her breath as she raises her eyes to the living room. He's sitting in front of the television, presumably waiting for her. She no longer asks why. Their relationship is somehow more than just casual sex, though she couldn't say with much clarity what it is, exactly. It isn't out of the ordinary that one of them lets themselves into the other's space without being specifically invited. They come and go whenever they have free time, and she's grown accustomed to walking into her Capitol apartment and seeing him there. It is a form of comfort, she reminds herself, thinking on that night when Gloss had used the word to explain their connection._

_He is gentle when he reaches her, tilting her chin up to look at her. His eyes are soft when he catches her gaze with his, and far more expressive than she's ever seen them before._

_He clenches his jaw as he looks at her. She's got bruises everywhere – along her cheek, around her neck, against her calves – and he knows there are far more of them beneath her dress. She's bleeding, too, though he can't tell where yet. He can see the traces of blood against her clothing, small droplets that have just barely managed to stain the fabric, but there are enough of them to make him even more cautious of his handling of her._

_At once, he's glad he had decided to stop by – and at the same time, wishes that he could be anywhere but here. Seeing Elara in this state is a firm reminder of how many other men have touched her and it makes him furious. He knows he's not the only one and that it's the same on both sides. He's got clients, too. Women who come to him, who drape themselves against his body as if they have the right to get so comfortable. There's only one woman who has that right, though he doubts she realizes it. He hadn't realized it either, for the longest time._

"_Come on," he murmurs, and then carefully hooks his arm under her knees to lift her up. Elara lets out a confused squeak when he does it, clearly not expecting the move, and flaps her hand against his chest as if she's trying to make him put her down._

_He doesn't. Honestly, this obstinate woman would probably never make it to her damned bedroom in the state she's in. She can barely walk, and the knowledge of why that is makes a dark, furious storm blaze just beneath the surface of his skin._

_He's been here before, with his sister. Cashmere can take care of herself, or so she likes to tell him, but he's seen her in similar states. Bruised and tormented, with those distressed eyes and shaking hands. He knows why she can't walk a straight path and why she cringes with every step. He's not an idiot._

_He's also not about to let her deal with this alone. He tells himself it's because he's already here anyhow, but he knows there's more to it than that. He hasn't fully admitted it to himself yet, but he knows there's more to Elara Winston than his heart has outright told him. It's a little scary, to be honest, but it doesn't stop him from carefully depositing her onto her bed and sighing out as he reaches for the zipper of her dress._

_She cringes back from him and Gloss immediately stops. His first reaction would be to continue on without pause, but he knows that this situation requires a defter hand to navigate._

"_Hey. Elara," he breathes, taking her face and turning her towards him. Their eyes clash, and he forces down a shiver of anger at the broken way she stares at him. After struggling for a moment to ensure that his voice is bereft of that fury, Gloss murmurs, "Let me help you. I just want to help you."_

_Something in her expression softens at his words. Her eyes recognize him. That's something at least. It's enough for her to quietly ask him, "Why?"_

_It's a fair question, he supposes. So far, their relationship has been strictly sex – or, at least, those are the parameters that he has tried to keep them to. But he can no longer deny that there is something else there too, lurking just below the surface of their connection. Something far more potent than just the need to escape into each other every once in a while._

_He quips her a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and responds, "Because I want to. Why do I need a reason?"_

_She shakes as she sits there, just a little, just enough to make him clench his jaw again as another wave of fury rattles through his frame. God, he hates this city. He hates this life. He hates that she has to go through the very same demons that so many before her had dealt with. He wishes he could save her from it. He knows he can't, but he can at least try to pick up the pieces of her that she has currently lost, and put her back together enough for her to regain herself._

"_I'll get a shower going," he tells her, pushing a strand of her hair out of her eyes. She nods dully and looks down at her hands, clenching them in her lap with tight, clawing fingers. He wants to hold them, wrap his fingers around hers and show her that she's not alone. Instead he stands up and walks to the bathroom._

_He turns the shower on and pulls his shirt off, then his pants, until he's only wearing his boxer briefs. When he returns to the bedroom to collect his broken friend, Elara is trying and failing to pull down the zipper of her dress. She's shaking too much to successfully reach it, so he pushes her hand out of the way and does it himself._

_She seems more willing to follow his instruction now, for she doesn't complain when he slides the dress off of her body. It lands on the floor in a heap of forgotten fabric as he pulls her towards the bathroom, maneuvering her over the tiles floor before shedding the last of her clothes. There's nothing truly sexual about it. Though the sight of her body is usually enough to press passion to his soul, tonight he is only focused on the technical side of things. She's thankful for it. She feels comfortable in his presence, even when he steps into the shower with her and starts soaping her body up, removing the traces of the night's torment._

_But there are many traces that cannot be removed so easily. Bruises and scratches that he'll have to patch up later, because there's something in him that can't stand the sight of her hurt like this. He doesn't know what it is or why he feels it, but it isn't an instinct that can be pushed aside so easily. Not when he can see the starkness of black and blue skin against the light of the bathroom and the red marks that mar the skin of her thighs and hips and breasts._

_He's furious – beyond furious – that a man would treat her like this, like a ragdoll to be used then tossed away once her purpose has been fulfilled. She looks like she's been beaten several times over. Hard punches and clawing fingers. It makes him a little nauseous, but he battles it down as he reaches for the shampoo._

"_You probably shouldn't be here," she mumbles to him as he tips her head back and starts washing the auburn strands. It feels strange, having him take care of her like this. The great Gloss Augustine, a sex symbol in his own right, adored by the Capitol for more than just his Games. He's a beloved Victor from District 1, trusted and loyal, or so they think. And he's in Elara Winston's apartment, a Victor from a district that rarely produces winners, at a questionable hour of the night, as if it's totally normal._

_In a way, it is totally normal. Yet there is something irregular in the gentle way he massages her scalp and begins to wash the shampoo out of her hair. She can't remember him ever being so…attentive. Not like this, for no reason but to give her some small sliver of comfort._

_She can see that he has no ulterior motives. His eyes are honest and clear, his expression open. She can see the anger there, but she knows it isn't directed at her. She sees a lot in his gaze – probably more than he means her to._

_Gloss scoffs. He's completely focused on washing out all remnant of shampoo when he answers, "That's never stopped me before, has it?"_

_No, it hasn't. They've gotten a little lax in their secret trysts. Her mind drifts to Finnick's subtle warning at the Gala almost a year ago, now, and she wonders how many other Victors have caught on. She hopes that no one else has realized the extent of her relations with Gloss, because she's honestly not sure if she could go on without him. It's funny, how comfortable she's gotten with someone like him. He's a man she never thought she'd ever want. He's blunt and crass sometimes, and his imposing reputation should be enough to keep her away. But – he's also soft and gentle, and when he makes love to her, it feels different from every other experience she's ever had. When he holds her, she feels like she's in an unbreakable circle of protection._

_Suddenly she craves that feeling more than anything else in the world, and Elara pushes herself forward to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders. If he's surprised by the sudden embrace, he doesn't show it. There's only a subtle hesitance in his actions when he pulls her into him, coiling his arms around her waist firmly. He tucks his face against her hair as the water washes over them, and something inside of him feels at once whole in a way he's never felt before._

_How does she do it? He's the one who's supposed to be comforting her, and yet suddenly it feels like she's healing him, fitting the broken pieces of him together with an ease that should frighten him but…it doesn't._

"_Thank you," she breathes against his neck._

_He doesn't know what to say to that, so he just holds her tighter._

* * *

A week goes by before Elara receives her schedule. It comes in the form of a thick beige envelope that arrives on her doorstep. Her name is written in fanciful calligraphy on the front of it, as if they think that this pretty looping version of her name will make up for the horrors that await her inside the pages. It doesn't.

It's a Saturday when it arrives. Amelia is still asleep. That girl could sleep till noon if Elara lets her. Usually she doesn't, but today Elara doesn't have the energy to berate her sister for staying up so late every night. She lets her sleep, and when the younger girl struts down the stairs several hours later and sees the envelope that Elara has put on the dining room table, the reason for the leniency is fairly obvious. Amelia has seen enough of those envelopes to know what they mean, and what tidings they bring. She's seen that expression on Elara's face enough to know that for once, a softer approach is necessary.

She heads for the coffee, which is still hot even though it's almost one o'clock in the afternoon, and as she pours herself a cup she carefully asks, "When are you leaving?"

Elara doesn't look at her. She's staring off into space with a cold mug between her hands, half full and mostly untouched. She's been alternating between staring at the envelope and staring at the rain splashing the windows for the past two hours, battling with demons that shouldn't exist in this small sliver of peace that she is afforded. Yet, as always, they somehow find a way to weave their way into her home in the form of detailed lists of names that are ready to snatch up the remaining dregs of her humanity.

It never gets any easier, no matter how many years she's been through this process or how many envelopes she has received.

"…In three weeks," is her belated response. She turns her attention to Amelia and watches her stir sugar into her coffee. Three teaspoons. That girl has a sugar addiction. It's no wonder why she's so difficult all the time.

Amelia stares at the envelope and frowns. She hates those envelopes. She hates what the Capitol makes Elara do and how often Snow calls her to his city. Elara had tried to hide it from her in the beginning, thinking that it would be better for her not to know exactly what goes on in the underbelly of Capitol society, but Amelia had found out. She's too nosy to leave the matter alone, especially when Elara travels back and forth so often. And besides, despite their sometimes difficult relationship, Amelia has a protective streak a mile wide for her sister. Not that it does much good in this case. There's nothing she can do to save Elara from this hell.

"Did you call Gloss?" she asks after a beat of silence. She knows about them, too. Elara has always been more logical and realistic, but when it comes to Gloss Augustine, she's a total idiot. It wasn't very difficult to figure it out. Amelia knows her too well, and Elara doesn't have to hide her feelings here in this house, where there are no Capitolites to fool.

Elara sighs and turns her gaze back to the window, staring sightlessly through the pane at the grey skies overhead. The rain is a fitting eulogy to the dread she feels in her bones. It's almost funny, but then again, there's nothing really amusing about being forced to sell your soul to strangers who don't really care if you live or die.

"I'll call him later," she mutters. In truth, she's been putting it off. It's only been a week since the end of the Games and their last phone call. She hasn't heard from him since then, and she's slowly been adjusting to her routine here in District 5. The routine that is as dull and lifeless as the rest of her, when she's forced to confront another long absence without him.

She wants to gather herself a little before calling him. Patch herself up, so to speak. The envelopes always leave her shaken, as if the paper itself has the potential to strip more parts of herself away. He knows her well enough to hear the cadence of that in her voice. She doesn't want to worry him.

Amelia grunts, taking a sip of coffee as she turns to stare out of the window, too. She hates when Elara gets like this, but she knows from experience that there is little she can do to help her. This time of the year is always the hardest, it seems. The Games season allows her to fall into a sort of expectation regarding her relationship with Gloss. She sees him every day, talks to him often, kisses him as much as possible. It's a cycle that lasts for several weeks straight – a rare thing, for them, that she wholeheartedly embraces. But then, when it's over and she returns to District 5, she breaks all over again as if for the first time, and Amelia has to watch it happen because she doesn't know what she can do to fix her. Victors are broken creatures, and there's no real way for them to be anything but broken.

"How about we go grocery shopping together?" Amelia asks, trying not to sound hopeful. She doesn't want Elara to think that she's only asking to make her feel better, to provide some small distraction. They rarely go shopping together though. She only asks during this time of year, and she knows that Elara is far too intelligent to be fooled. It doesn't stop her from agreeing though.

She gives Amelia a cringing smile and shrugs, "Fine. We should probably restock the fridge anyway."

Amelia nods and quickly says, "I'll go get dressed. Be down in a few!"

She takes her coffee mug with her to change out of her pajamas, and Elara watches her leave. She knows Amelia too well to not realize what she's trying to do, but it does make her feel better to know that her sister cares enough to at least try. Having her around, even though she drives her crazy half the time, is a blessing that she will always be thankful for. She knows she's hard on her sometimes and she knows that Amelia doesn't always appreciate the fact that her sister is both a sibling and a mother figure in one, but they're a pair nonetheless, and they're far more similar than either of them wants to admit.

They head out of the quiet Victor's Village, both dressed in sweatshirts with the hoods drawn up over their heads to keep of the rain. Their umbrella seems to have gotten lost somehow – probably a result of Amelia not putting it back where it belongs – so they run through the rain until they reach the next street, where the roofs of the buildings extend outward over the sidewalks and shield them from the elements.

The grey city seems all but abandoned today. Even though the rain is one of the few constants in this place, it still keeps people off the streets. They pass a few souls who linger on the sidewalks, though. One of the shopkeepers is standing in the doorway of his store with his arms lazily crossed over his chest as he waits for potential customers. He nods to them as they pass, and Elara greets him.

"How are you, Ernest?" she asks, pausing briefly as she drags her auburn hair off her forehead. The rain had made it stick there in what is probably an unattractive manner, not that she cares. She doesn't have to be perfectly put together here. Outside of the fancy dresses and expensive clothes she wears in the Capitol, her usual fashion sense in District 5 is far more laid back. Sweatshirts and jeans take up the majority of her closet, and she rarely wears jewelry.

It's normal in this place, where most of the population can't afford nice clothes or fancy necklaces. She fits right into the grey slate streets. The only feature that sets her apart from the rest is the auburn color of her hair as it peaks out of the hood of her sweatshirt. That, and the dull, lifeless look in her eyes.

Ernest is a tall man, about middle aged, with a wife who works down on the lower levels of the Grid and two kids who are still in school. Elara used to babysit his children when she was younger, back before she was Reaped and lost any credentials she might have had to look after children.

Ernest shrugs, "Same as ever. Business is slow today. Don't suppose you two need anything?"

Ernest owns a hardware shop. He's very mechanically minded, same as most of the people around here. He sells all sorts of items and usually does pretty good business. District 5 isn't as impoverished as some of the outer districts in Panem, and he's been able to scrap out a decent living for his family. Unfortunately, though, Elara doesn't need anything from him today.

She gives him an apologetic look and he waves her off with a, "You know where I am when you do. You girls stay out of the rain, you hear?"

Amelia rolls her eyes and quips, "I don't think that's possible, Ernest."

Elara sighs.

"See you later!" she calls as she follows after her sister, who has began walking in the direction of the grocery store. All the shops are fairly close to the Victor's Village, on a stretch of road that cuts down the middle of the district. If you keep walking straight ahead, you'll reach the huge lake that surrounds District 5. There's a pier that someone had built on it decades ago, and a lot of citizens go swimming there during the summer months when the air is far more hot and humid than it is now.

You always know where you are within the district. The Coriolanus powerplant is as much a landmark as it is a way to orient yourself on the streets. It stretches far into the sky, above every other building. Today, it is a dark and imposing structure in the distance, made all the darker with the rain that splatters against its walls.

Amelia reaches the store first. She doesn't hold the door open for Elara and Elara doesn't expect her to. The pair enters the store silently, only pausing for a moment to say hello to Gregory and his daughter, Paula, who are both working behind the counter. Paula is in her thirties now with a husband of her own. She alternates between working at her parent's store and at the little farm that her husband owns just outside of the district, where they produce vegetables and some varieties of fruit. They don't ship their harvests to the Capitol, though. All of the food either ends up here at the grocers, or at their local farm stand.

"What a day we're having," Gregory says in passing, nodding out at the rainy skies. It's funny, how often people complain about the rain despite it being so common around here. Still, it makes for an icebreaker of sorts no matter what time of year it is.

"There's a thunderstorm brewing," Paula adds as she shoots a gentle smile at Elara. "Make sure you've got everything you need for the next couple of days. You know how crazy people get during a storm."

Elara hums dryly and mutters, "You'd think they'd be used to it by now…"

Gregory laughs. "It's the only interesting thing that happens around here. I think people just like the drama of it all." He idles with the register and adds, "I'm not complaining, mind you. We do great business during storms."

Amelia snorts from the end of a nearby aisle and calls, "Do you have any more of those fruit drinks, Greg? The strawberry ones?"

Before he can respond, Elara jumps up to firmly say, "No way are you wasting our money on overpriced drinks." She grabs the basket Amelia is already stuffing with drinks that they don't need to be buying, and the girl sends her an aggravated frown.

"Why not? We've got money to spare," she complains, much to Elara annoyance.

She's right. They do have more money than they really need, but most of that money comes from places she isn't proud of, and most of it goes towards paying off Amelia's education. She's been putting money to the side for years now, hoping that Amelia might turn herself around and show an interest in going to one of the technical schools that litter the district after she graduates from the primary school she's in now, which is required until the age of nineteen. Amelia is eighteen, but she only has a few months to go until she has to start thinking about what she's going to do with her life.

A large portion of kids who don't immediately get offered jobs at the Grid or the powerplant end up going to one of the technical schools to further their knowledge of a certain subject. Most of the schools are two year programs that specialize in certain specifications, like electrical engineering or hydroelectricity. Some of them are geared more towards handyman-type work, like plumbing or construction or masonry. Those are the brunt of the jobs here in District 5, which is far more of a mechanical district than many others. Unfortunately, Amelia hasn't shown much interest in becoming an electrician, but Elara isn't about to let her sit around the house for the rest of her life doing nothing.

With a sigh, she takes the basket from her and starts putting the drinks back. She leaves one as a peace offering, though it doesn't seem to make Amelia's frown any less pronounced. The younger girl rolls her eyes at her and ambles further down the aisle, probably looking for more junk food that they don't need to waste money on.

Honestly, money doesn't come from the sky. Elara works hard for her paycheck…it just isn't the sort of work that she can talk about in polite conversation. If she was in Amelia's shoes, she'd jump at the chance to do something else – anything else. She always used to want to be an engineer like their parents. If she had the time, she wouldn't hesitate to start taking some classes and learn more about the subject, but as it is, Snow's schedules keep her far too occupied for such pursuits.

With another sigh, she follows Amelia down the aisle, gathering some produce while she goes and wondering what sort of life she might have led, had she not been Reaped eight years ago. But even though a large part of her yearns for that mundane, beautifully normal life, another part of her wouldn't trade her circumstances for anything. Because – despite the horrors that she has to face every time she goes into the Capitol, and the clients she has to please even when they ask her to strip away her humanity and her dignity, there is one golden highlight of this life she lives.

A warm hazel gaze flashes at her from her mind's eye, and her hard expression softens just so. No, she wouldn't trade him for anything.


	14. I am a cloud that ventures into it

**Chapter Fourteen | I am a cloud that ventures into it.**

"_Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabbed_

_With a white wench's black eye, run through the ear with_

_A love song."_

_2.3, 13-15 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Cashmere knows her brother like the back of her hand. They've always been inseparable from an early age. He would follow her around like a lost puppy when they were younger, wanting to be a part of her world. Since they were only a year apart, she'd let him. He had always been her best friend, the only one she ever needed._

_When she volunteered for the Games, he was quick to follow. She had been furious at him for a long time for his stupidity. Neither of them had truly known what they were doing when they raised their hands up and shouted, 'I volunteer,' before anyone else could. Once she had won, Cashmere had realized pretty quickly what a Victor's life was really like, and it wasn't anything like the veneered glamor that she had always pictured it to be. It was dark and it was scary, and when Gloss joined the ranks of Victors a year later, she was so upset that she couldn't even talk to him for weeks without it turning into a shouting match. She wishes she could have dissuaded him from volunteering. Maybe it would have made him think twice about following her, this time._

_Or maybe it wouldn't. Gloss is fiercely loyal. Even if he had known, back then, exactly what he was getting himself into, he probably wouldn't have stopped himself from volunteering. By then, he had discovered what sort of life Cashmere was living as a new Victor, and she knows that the reason he volunteered was to help her bear that burden. That's just how he is when it comes to the people he loves. She knows him too well to think otherwise. Which is why she knows that there's something going on with him now._

_They've just returned to District 1 after another trip into the Capitol. Though their visits are sometimes separate from one another, they usually go in at the same time. Snow likes to have them do interviews and photoshoots together. They're a pair, and that's the image he's cultivated since they won their Games._

_They've been home for about three days now, and as always after a trip to the Capitol, they've both sequestered themselves into their house. Snow had given them both separate houses when they won, but they mostly live together at Cashmere's place. It's nice to have someone around who understands your nightmares and is ready to make a midnight cup of tea to help calm you down from them. Besides, living by yourself in one of these huge houses makes you feel like the loneliest person in the world._

"_Want some hot cocoa?" Cashmere asks from the kitchen, voice muffled as she riffles through the cabinets in search of the tin of powdered chocolate. It's her favorite drink, which is a little amusing because District 1 is so hot already. She says it makes her feel warm and happy though, and Gloss doesn't have it in him to complain about how much money she spends on the stuff._

"_Nah," he returns, barely looking up at her from his seat on the couch. The kitchen and living are connected in a large, sweeping layout. If he lifts his head, he can see into the kitchen without any problem. As it is, though, his head is lowered and eyes are staring at the flickering light of the television. Capitol Nightly is on, a talk show hosted by Claudius Templesmith in which he goes over the current events of the Capitol. Sometimes he'll talk about things happening in the other districts too, but only if they relate somehow to the workings of the main city. It's called 'Capitol Nightly' for a reason, after all._

_Anyway, tonight he's talking about the Victory Tour of the latest Victor, a girl from District 2 that he can't remember the name of. She'd just given her speech in District 5 that morning and the camera shows off the main square of the grey city, highlighting the speech for the Capitol audience back in their homes. They do like their Victors, especially new Victors, and the girl from District 2 has a certain way about her that the Capitol is obsessed with. Gloss, though, is far more focused on someone else._

_Harley Balstrod and Elara Winston, the only two Victors in District 5, are also standing on the stage while the new Victor gives her customary speech. They're both camera-ready, dressed up and wearing nice clothes. Gloss barely pays any attention at all to the rehearsed words that spew from the new Victor's lips. He's far too busy studying Elara._

_Only a few weeks ago, she'd been in his bed at his high rising Capitol apartment without a stitch of clothing in sight. He can still imagine the scent of that floral shampoo she uses. For days after, the scent had lingered on his pillows. He wouldn't tell a soul, but he swears it lessened his nightmares for those few days, until the remnants of her had vanished and the nightmares came back at full force._

_He wouldn't tell a soul that he thinks he's starting to feel something more for Elara Winston, either. Nor would he make mention that the sight of her now feels strangely therapeutic, even though a large part of him desperately wishes he didn't just have to look at her through a screen. He won't say that he misses the bold way she's accustomed herself to his body, as if she's made it her mission to explore every inch of him. He also won't say that he misses her, because that is a dangerous road to go down and he knows that it won't end well for him._

_Really though, he doesn't have to say any of those things, because Cashmere knows him so well that she can read his thoughts as they pan out over the planes of his face. She watches him idly, trying not to be obvious as she leans against the kitchen counter and waits for the water to boil. He hasn't looked away from Elara even once since she appeared on screen. He doesn't look like he's even aware of what Templesmith is saying._

_There's something in his eyes that Cashmere dares not draw attention to. He's so immersed in his thoughts that he doesn't even realize he's letting them show themselves so clearly in his expression. But he is. She can read the soft desire clear as day in the creases of his gaze. If she didn't know her brother so well, she might even say that he's pining after that woman, as if he actually misses her._

_It's ridiculous. He's being so stupid. They both know that Victors don't get to choose anything in their lives. The fact that he's getting involved in this sort of clandestine relationship with a Victor from District 5 of all places is idiotic of him. The repercussions if they get found out could be dire. Gloss and Cashmere don't have anyone anymore who they need to protect, besides each other. But Elara has a sister, if Cashmere remembers correctly, and family members make wonderful targets. She would know. That's how their own parents died, after all._

_This is getting out of hand. That's clear enough to her as she watches the expressions flicker over her brother's face. She's never seen him pay so much attention to a woman before. He'd fooled around plenty before his Games, but since his victory and everything that had followed, Gloss hasn't been in an actual relationship. And even when he had brought home girlfriends, back when their lives were normal and they were still a whole and undivided family with parents who were still alive…he had never looked at any of those girls in the same way that he's looking at Elara Winston's stoic face on Templesmith's late night television program._

"_District 5 is a pretty gloomy place," Cashmere says. Her voice is careful and slightly prodding. She watches Gloss's expression with her arms crossed over her chest, and when he glances over at her, they both know that she isn't actually talking about District 5._

_He shifts a little in his seat and shrugs, "I don't know. There's something appealing about it."_

_She raises an eyebrow and he mirrors the look, eyes blazing now with a challenge that Cashmere knows only too well._

"_It's depressing and dark," she retorts. A part of her wonders why she's even bothering._

_Gloss laughs her words off and says, "Maybe. But there's good things about it too."_

_She gives him an unimpressed look. The water begins to boil on the stove, so she pushes off from the counter to pour some of it into her mug. As she's stirring in the hot cocoa, she sarcastically drawls, "Well, you're an expert now, I suppose."_

_There's a warning construed in his eyes when he catches her gaze with his. She meets it head on with a warning of her own, and for a moment, they just stare at each other from across the room, neither willing to give in. Their arguments are epic, sometimes, and loud, but this one is more stubborn than angry. Truth be told, Cashmere is mainly just worried about what he's getting himself into. He must know that, otherwise he'd be giving into his aggravation right now._

"…_I wouldn't say that," he finally mutters, turning his gaze back to the screen. A moment after he does, the scene flickers back to Templesmith's face and the man starts saying something about how the new Victor will be heading off to District 4 in the morning to continue her tour. Elara Winston is gone from the TV, and Gloss frowns. His sister notices, of course, and it doesn't make her feel any less worried._

"_I would," she counters, walking into the living room with her steaming mug and taking a seat in her favorite armchair. Gloss glances at her with a frown and she frowns right back as she carefully says, "I get that you did her a…favor, that first time, but don't you think this is getting out of hand?"_

_His frown deepens. A part of him regrets telling Cashmere about that first night, but she can be stubborn when she applies herself to his problems, and besides, they tell each other things that most siblings would probably keep to themselves. It's the nature of their relationship, and they don't exactly have anyone else to talk to. He had told her about how he'd helped Winston out during her first time. As for all the times after that, he didn't have to tell Cashmere. She isn't blind, and she's closer to Gloss than anyone else is. At least, she thinks she is, though now she's beginning to wonder if this Elara Winston isn't starting to go toe to toe with her._

_It's not that she's jealous or anything, it's just that Gloss is playing a game that is off limits to Victors, and she's concerned that if Snow finds out about it, they'll incite his wrath. Love, or whatever this is, isn't meant for them. And even though Gloss has adamantly denied that his relations with Winston are nearly as emotional as that, Cashmere knows that there's something more to it than he's admitting to himself. He wouldn't be staring longingly at the woman's face like he'd just been doing if there wasn't. He's stubborn though, and acutely private when it comes to the emotions he usually pretends he doesn't have, even with his own sister._

"_How many times do I have to tell you that it's just a casual thing?" he asks. His voice is getting a little angry, like he's annoyed that they're having this conversation again. He stares at Cashmere with a firm gaze, as if he's challenging her to refute his words._

_Well, Cashmere isn't the type to bow down to a challenge, especially when its being issued by her obstinate brother._

"_You might believe that, but I don't," she quips. "There's nothing casual about the way you look at her."_

_He jerks back a little as if he's surprised to hear this, and then promptly demands, "How do I look at her?" As if he doesn't already know._

_Cashmere rolls her eyes impatiently and says, "Like she's important to you. Like she makes you happy."_

_If he'd been surprised before, now he looks a little rattled. Is he really so blind to his own nature? Does he really not see what Cashmere sees? He's such an idiot._

"…_She does make me happy," he mutters, eyes turning into a glare, like he thinks Cashmere might laugh at him for his honesty. When she doesn't, he adds, "She makes me feel…human. It's not like I love her, Cash. We've talked about it. We've agreed that it's just a form of release."_

_Any other sibling might have ended the conversation there, totally uninterested in talking about something so deep with a family member. But Cashmere and Gloss aren't normal siblings. Besides, she's far too stubborn to let this subject drop that easily._

_She rubs her forehead in frustration and tells him, "Look, Gloss, I'm not saying you don't deserve this, especially considering everything the Capitol has taken from us. But – this is dangerous. You know that."_

_He does know it. She sees it in his eyes as he looks away from her with a glower._

_She sighs, "If Snow finds out – "_

"_He won't find out," he denies, with an adamance that surprises her. He turns back to stare at her with blazing eyes, and she raises her eyebrows at the expression. She's not sure she's ever seen him so…determined before._

_He rolls his eyes at her and stands up, evidently finished with this conversation. "And even if he does find out, it's not like we're doing anything wrong. It's just a form of release, Cash. Snow can't fault us for that. We don't love each other and we never will. I could…never fall in love with someone like her."_

_He swallows and a strange expression crosses over his face, as if the words feel off to him even as he utters them. Cashmere wants to slap some sense into him because it's fairly clear that even he knows he's wrong, at least on some level. But, as usual, Gloss ignores his own emotions like they're the plague, and after a moment spent grappling with the strange sensation that passes through him, he straightens his shoulders and says, "I'm going out. I'll be back for dinner."_

_The door slams as he leaves, and Cashmere finally gives into the desire to roll her eyes. She stands behind what she says on a daily basis: her brother is a total idiot._

* * *

"How have you been?" Elara asks Cashmere as they sit down for lunch at a little family owned restaurant on the western end of the Capitol. It hasn't been very long since last they saw each other. The Games ended only a few weeks ago, but Elara's schedule hasn't given her much time to rest before having to return to this place. Cashmere is in a similar boat this time around, though her brother isn't set to return for another few months.

A few days after receiving her new schedule, Elara had finally called him. The crushing disappointment of hearing that she wouldn't see Gloss again for months had put her into a gloomy mood that had lasted for weeks. The only redeeming aspect of their current circumstances is that he'll have plenty of downtime where he won't be forced to deal with the brunt of his demons. She's happy for that, at least, even though the selfish part of her wishes he could be here anyway.

Cashmere sends her a sidelong glance as she reaches for her menu, and says, "I've been fine. A little overworked, but fine." She sends her a grimacing look that tells Elara exactly how she's been 'overworked', and Elara cringes at her.

To be honest, Cashmere is really the only person Elara talks to about her this aspect of her life. As a fellow woman who is also involved in the darker depths of Snow's manipulation, she understands what Elara goes through on a more innate level than Gloss. Though Gloss also occasionally has these kinds of clients, he also deals with a completely different aspect of manipulation than Cashmere and Elara. His Talent is modeling, so most of the time when he's in the Capitol, he's at photoshoots for magazines or at meetings with the photographers of some of the larger clothing companies. He has some nightly clients too, but he busier with modeling work than anything else.

Besides, it's different, in a way, for the male Victors. This brand of manipulation is terrible no matter who you are, but it isn't the same when you are a woman forced into such a life. Cashmere understands it, and they usually have a very open dialogue about what they're made to do and who their clients are. Elara talks about it more openly with her than she does with Gloss.

"…You have a full schedule, then," Elara murmurs, eyeing Cashmere for a moment before turning her attention to her menu, too. They have that in common, it seems. She usually has a couple of free nights in between clients, but this visit is busier than usual. Perhaps it's just as well that Gloss isn't here. She wouldn't get to see much of him anyway.

"Mmm," Cashmere agrees with a hum, and quietly says, "I've got Crane scheduled for tonight. I thought he preferred you, so I was a little surprised when I saw that."

Elara cringes a little at the words, but she doesn't deny them. Seneca Crane does seem to like her. He's taken her out to dinner several times now, which is almost unheard of for clients. Some of the more important ones like to flaunt the Victors by going out on the town and into the public eye, pretending to 'date' them for a little while. The Capitol eats it up, loving the drama and the tabloids that result from the so-called dates. They don't know what goes on once night falls and the curtains close, though. It's really all just a big game to the Capitolites – both the spectators and the important clients. Victors are commodities, after all. Soulless machinations without free will.

"Yeah, well, you can take him," Elara grumbles. "I will warn you though that he tends to have some weird fantasies."

Cashmere raises an eyebrow and mutters, "Wonderful. What kind of fantasies?"

There's no embarrassment in her voice when Elara answers her. At this point, it's kind of hard to be embarrassed around Cashmere. As aggressive as their relationship had been in the beginning, they're practically sisters these days. Warning each other about clients is common practice between them.

With a shrug, Elara says, "Roleplay, mainly. There was this one time when he wanted me to dress up in a tribute outfit and pretend that I was back in the Games."

She says the words so blankly that Cashmere might have assumed that she was completely indifferent to the memory, but she's gotten to know Elara fairly well over the years, and she knows that this isn't the case. Elara likes to pretend that she's indifferent to everything, but it's all a mask. Every Victor wears one at some point or another. It's a flimsy way of shielding themselves from the horrors they're forced into, but it's the only way they can.

A subtle sort of fury creases through Cashmere's eyes. The disgust she feels is almost tangible in the air between them. As if buying someone's body for pleasure isn't enough, Seneca Crane also makes them relive their Games? She scowls.

"What did he do, pretend to kill you or something?" she muttered, hardly believing that she's even hearing this. Every time she thinks she's got a handle on the revulsion of this city, she always hears or experiences something that makes her realize how sick this place really is.

Elara scoffs, looking vaguely amused in a strange, altogether dry manner, and replies, "Hardly. He was playing the role of my humble rescuer."

If anything, Cashmere looks even more revolted. She's not sure which is worse, dealing with a killer or dealing with an arrogant idiot who thinks they could rescue them. All she knows is that if he tries to play this game with her tonight, she's going to punch him. Well, she probably won't punch him, but she's not going to disguise her aversion.

"God, these people are messed up," Cashmere mutters.

Elara hums in agreement, but says, "At least he won't hurt you. He's actually pretty gentle most of the time."

The grimace that Cashmere sends her is half pleased, half disgusted. A gentle client is a blessing and a curse all in one. They're better than the ones who hurt them on purpose, just to see them cringe away from them and to feel some kind of power that they're otherwise unable to feel at home. The gentle ones, though, are also flawed. They have a tendency of pretending like they care. Sometimes they'll even ask Elara is she's feeling good or if they're pleasuring her enough. She never knows what to say to them when they ask her that. She can't exactly tell them that she'd prefer that they get off of her completely and leave her alone.

They order their food when the waiter comes to their table, and fall into companionable silence, both swept off in their own thoughts. It's not uncommon for Elara and Cashmere to go out to lunch when they're together in the city. The citizens of the Capitol almost expect them to these days. They've become friends in their own way, over the years. She doubts they would have gotten to know each other so well if Gloss hadn't been the very thing that had brought them together in the first place, but it's nice to think that they would have. They get along well, and they understand each other in ways that some of the other Victors don't.

"You can ask, you know," Cashmere says suddenly, glancing at Elara out of the corner of her eye. Elara looks at her, tracing over the condensation of the water glass that sits in front of her, and raises an eyebrow. Cashmere copies her expression and quietly mutters, "I know you want to. You're both so stupid when it comes to your relationship."

If she had any question as to what Cashmere had been referring to before, Elara doesn't anymore. She rolls her eyes and snorts, "We're not in a _relationship_ – "

"Please spare me," her friend complains, crossing her arms over her chest before she drawls, "He'd marry you in a heartbeat, you know that right? If he could, he'd never let you go."

The sudden rush of sincerity in Cashmere's voice makes Elara stare at her in surprise. To her horror, she actually feels a blush creep over her cheeks, and she really hopes her face doesn't look as warm as it feels. She's thought of marriage in the past, briefly of course. Sometimes she can't stop her silly daydreams from getting away from her. The thought of waking up next to him every single morning, having their nights to themselves every single evening, doing whatever they want to do all day, every day – it's a dream that sometimes she can't help but conjure, because she wants it so badly. But Elara isn't stupid enough to actually think that she could have that kind of life with Gloss. There are too many factors in their way, not least of all the fact that Snow would never allow it.

Some Victors are able to get away with it. Some of them even have families and children, but those Victors aren't the popular ones like them. They don't receive schedules every few months that dictate their lives. Once they win their Games, they only return to the Capitol for important functions or events that require all the Victors to be in attendance, but other than that, they're able to live fairly normal lives as long as they don't do anything to ensnare Snow's attention. Elara and Gloss, though? They're not as lucky. The Capitol likes them too much to allow them to fade away into the background.

Her silence makes Cashmere sigh. "He misses you," she tells her after a moment, studying Elara's face closely. "He doesn't tell me, but I know it's true."

Her friend just chuckles and rubs her face. She pushes her water glass away and mumbles, "We both know we'd never be able to…you know."

Neither of them use his name. If anyone overheard them talking about Gloss and her like this, it could be dangerous. And Elara can't bring herself to say 'marriage' either. Some words are just taboo.

God, she can't even count how many times Gloss has tried to say, in so many words, that he loves her. Any woman would want the confirmation. Maybe she's crazy to stop him every time he attempts to give it to her. It's just that if he says that word out loud, she's not sure she'd be able to part from him, and she knows that she has to. She always has to. Love is taboo, too.

Cashmere understands. She always seems to understand, and Elara is always grateful for it.

"Snow would never allow it," is all she says, but then quietly adds, "but that doesn't mean he doesn't wish he could. He's not as good at hiding his emotions as he thinks he is."

At this, Elara laughs a little and agrees, "True."

Perhaps it's just something men do, trying to hide what they feel. Maybe it's because he's a Victor. Maybe it's because he's from District 1. It doesn't really matter, honestly. Elara can see him more clearly than most.

"If I don't see you before you leave, you'll…you'll tell him, right? That I miss him too," Elara murmurs, piercing Cashmere with a long look.

Cashmere just smirks and says with no shortage of amusement, "I will, not that I need to. You're shit at hiding your emotions too, Elara."

Elara smiles and shrugs, knowing that she's probably right, at least where Gloss is concerned. They're both pretty awful at it, really, though they've been successful enough to hide their relationship for eight years now, so at least there's that.

Still. Love might be a taboo word, but this one isn't. She can tell him that she misses him. It's a safety net, but at least it's something.


	15. You are an open ocean swept aside

**A/N: This chapter does contain a somewhat graphic scene with a client, so feel free to just read the flashback if that bothers you!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen | You are an open ocean swept aside;**

"_Some grief shows much of love,_

_But much grief shows still some want of wit."_

_3.5, 73-74 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Elara Winston has been a Victor for a total of six months, and so far, it hasn't been so bad. Well, actually it has, but the sleepless night that result from her nightmares are the only horrors she has to deal with, for now. She doesn't know, yet, what sort of life Snow is planning for her. For now, she is still a new Victor fresh out of the arena, and she is just trying to get through her Victory Tour with some semblance of courage._

_District 3 had been her favorite district so far. It's similar enough to her own that she had felt more at home there than she does here, at her second to last stop. The Capitol awaits her after this, where Snow will be hosting a party in her honor. She knows the drill. She's watched plenty of other Victory Tours to know how this works. But for now, she's just got one more stop before she can wrap this up and go home, where she longs to be. Amelia is only ten years old and even though her parents are looking after her, Elara feels strange to be away from them all for so long._

_They've never been very good at dealing with their second child. Amelia is a wild kid even at a young age. She's got a spirit that reminds Elara of an unbroken horse, and legs to match. She's always running off into some kind of trouble, and with their parents working long hours at the Grid, Elara's always been the one to take care of her and make sure she's not terrorizing the whole district._

_It's a job that she hates to love. Amelia makes her want to laugh and yell at the same time._

"_You look lovely, my dear," Ignatius fawns, beaming proudly at her as he fixes her already perfectly styled hair. Even though she's only eighteen years old, he's dressed her up in a gown far more scandalous than she's ever worn. Of course, in the years to come, she'll wear dresses that go above and beyond what she's wearing now, but the plunging bust and the back that drops low to her waist makes her extremely uncomfortable._

_She doesn't feel like an eighteen year old girl anymore. In the last six months, she's felt like she's become very old indeed._

"…_Thank you," she mutters, not really trying to sound sincere. If Ignatius notices, he doesn't show it. She thinks he does though. There's a subtle, sharp expression that's hewn through his gaze when his eyes lock with hers, and from the way he purses his mouth just slightly, he looks like he feels a little underappreciated. Well good. So far, she's hated nearly all the outfits he's put her in. It's as if he's trying to make her appear more womanly than she is and the discomfort is evident in the way she wears his designs._

"_Stand up straight and look confident," is all he says, as if he's tired of having to deal with her. She snorts in response, a derisive sound, and he sighs. Apparently uninterested in what he probably sees as her own pettiness, Ignatius makes his exit promptly._

_Maybe she is being petty. She doesn't care. She doesn't care about any of it. She's in the middle of not caring when a voice suddenly drawls, "You know, you should try smiling. It does wonders."_

_Surprised at the fact that she isn't as alone as she'd thought, Elara turns swiftly to see none other than Gloss and Cashmere Augustine standing arm in arm in the middle of the foyer of the Justice Building. District 1 is her last stop on the tour, and she's been dreading it. Mainly because she hasn't heard very good things about this place, but also because she's been anticipating this meeting for quite a while._

_Gloss and Cashmere have always intimidated her a little bit. On television, they're both so put together and confident. People adore them. They're the Capitol's Golden Children, and it's almost like they don't even have to try to be popular – they just are. Elara's never cared much for popularity or the opinions of others, but their reputation precedes them, and it's not necessarily a good one._

_Both their Games had been brutal, by their own hands. Cashmere had won first, and she had been utterly merciless as she cut down the other tributes. Elara had cringed at the final days of it. It was as if the woman had turned into a ferocious killing machine with no soul. Gloss hadn't been much better. He'd been completely animalistic throughout the entire two weeks of his Games, which was relatively short really, because he had practically rushed through the entire arena fearlessly._

_By comparison, Elara's games had been completely boring, at least in the eyes of the Capitol. She's quite sure that if she had been Reaped simultaneously with one of these two, she wouldn't be here right now. They'd have cut her down like the weaker tribute she is._

_With a scowl, Elara raises her chin and sarcastically asks, "It does wonders for what, exactly?"_

_The question seems to amuse Gloss, who had been the one to speak. He raises an eyebrow at her and slowly drawls, "Making people like you, Winston."_

_Elara purses her mouth and doesn't reply. She doesn't care if people like her or not, least of all the people in this district. She hadn't been the one to kill the tributes here. If that isn't enough of a peace offering, she doesn't know what is._

"_He's right, you know, as much as it pains me to admit it," Cashmere says, eyeing Elara's dress with a gaze that looks partially appreciative but mostly derisive, as if she thinks that Ignatius had tried a little too hard._

_Unlike Elara, Cashmere looks as much the woman she is. At twenty one years old, she's still young enough to be considered an adolescent in some ways, but old enough to be seen as a woman in the eyes of the Capitol. In comparison, Elara feels like a total child._

_She shifts a little in discomfort and Cashmere rolls her eyes and snaps, "Stand still already. You have to own that dress if you're going to pull it off."_

_Elara scowls at her, and Gloss chuckles a little. Her eyes blaze over at him, only to find that he's giving her a thorough look over. He's completely unabashed at the way he's staring at her, slowly perusing her dress as if he's trying to decide what he thinks of it. If anything, it only makes Elara feel even more uncomfortable, which is fairly obvious from the way she continues shifting from foot to foot._

_Gloss is ridiculously handsome. Anyone with eyes would agree. Both him and his sister possess a magnetic beauty that makes people notice them. Gloss himself has a rugged appeal that is currently being tamed in the polished suit he's wearing. He doesn't have his jacket with him, but he doesn't really need it. He looks crisp and suave in his button up shirt and dress trousers. The first few buttons are undone, showing off the hint of his chest, and when Elara's eyes lingers on it, Gloss laughs._

"_Checking me out, Winston? I'm not sure you could handle me," he smirks, eyes creasing in patronizing amusement. Elara laughs too, a snippy sound, and it seems to surprise him for a moment._

_He's further surprised when she quips, "Since you were just looking me over, I think I have the right to do the same. And I wouldn't want to handle you anyway." She says the word with a hint of disdain, but instead of offending him, it only seems to make him more amused._

_At his side, Cashmere rolls her eyes. "We should get going. See you on the stage, Winston. Don't mess up your lines."_

_Elara grumbles a little as they walk away. She can't help but stare at the perfect silhouette of Cashmere as she strides off in her high heels, looking as if she was born in that dress and those shoes. Gloss sends her a wink as he passes, much to her dismay. She feels her cheeks heat up a tiny bit as a result, but luckily his back is already turned so he doesn't see. She's only just met him, but she can already picture the hell she'd receive from him catching sight of her blush. He seems like the teasing type._

_After a few minutes idling in the foyer of the Justice Building, Olive comes teetering over to her in her customary five inch heels. The District 5 escort looks like she might fall at any moment, and Elara raises a skeptical eyebrow at her, wondering if she'll have to catch her. Thankfully, the woman somehow manages not to slip on the polished tiled floor._

"_It's time," Olive says, voice all full of excitement, as if this is some kind of incredible event that she's honestly thrilled to take part in. Elara wouldn't consider it to be incredible, but she does suppose it's pretty rare. District 5 never wins the Hunger Games, after all. Olive probably never thought she'd have the opportunity to usher her Victor around like this._

_As she leads Elara over to the large doors, she says, "Now, you have your cards. Just read them if you need a few prompts and you'll do splendidly. And remember – after this, it's the Capitol! I know you're so excited about that! Do our district proud, my dear!"_

_Elara would like to ask Olive when she'd started considering District 5 to be her district. Olive has always loathed District 5. Elara distinctly remembers her complaining about the dust and the dirt during one of the past Reapings, when she thought her microphone was turned off. It had been embarrassing for everyone who had heard her. Instead of snarking at her though, Elara just sighs and nods. It isn't worth the energy, trying to figure out a creature like Olive._

_The doors swing open, and Elara steps out onto the landing of the Justice Building, in front of a crowd of people who look nothing like her own. She's seen a lot of people in the last few weeks since her Victory Tour had begun, but none of them have ever looked like this. There are no rugged workers in sight, no impoverished families or dirty beggars. At first, Elara thinks she's looking right into a group of Capitolites, with their garish fashion statements and polished clothing. Everyone looks like they're wealthy. And expectant._

_She feels a tiny bit nervous as she walks up to the microphone, but Elara is nothing if not good at pretenses. She lifts her chin up. She's not going to bend to the whims of these people. Or, at least, that's what she tells herself as she cautiously walks across the stage._

_Olive takes her place beside Gloss and Cashmere. They're standing on the side of the stage, in the public's eye but slightly removed from it, as if they're there to give Elara some semblance of support. She thinks it's a little funny, really, the prospect of garnering any kind of support from a group of has-been Careers. There are a lot of them, though. Far more than most districts. Even more than District 2. The Capitol loves this place, and it's clear in both the wide display of wealth and the fact that so many of their tributes survived their Games._

_She doesn't really mean for it to happen, but her eyes drift over Gloss's as she passes the siblings. Their eyes clash momentarily. It really only lasts a matter of seconds, if that, but the little smile he sends her makes her feel strangely comforted. It's such an unexpected feeling coming from a man like him that it unnerves her a little, and she walks faster._

_Her speech is delivered point blank. She doesn't try to appease the crowd by weaving some kind of intricate story about her feelings regarding their tributes. She doesn't care about their tributes and they don't expect her to. She knows that Olive isn't very happy with her when she finishes the speech on a dull note, but Elara is too exhausted to care about that, either. She's just happy that she hadn't messed up her lines so that Cashmere can't annoy her about it later._

_Later. God, when will this day end? For the last few weeks, it's all been the same. Arrive at the district that she's scheduled to be in, get wrangled into a dress by Ignatius and his group of insane stylists, say her speech as fast as she can without sounding overly rude, attend a banquet in her honor that same night, finally get some sleep, and head off to the next district in the morning to do it all again._

_All she wants to do is collapse into bed and try to sleep without any nightmares, but she knows she can't do that. The moment she steps off the stage after saying her speech, Olive and Ignatius descend upon her and drag her off to 'fix her make-up' and 'go over the schedule for the evening'. As if they haven't already done that a million times._

_Several hours later, she's sitting down at a lavish table in a garishly decorated room while the mayor of District 1 welcomes her. She's surrounded by people she doesn't know, by Victors who she can't remember, and by décor that honestly makes her head spin. The centerpieces on the tables look like they're made out of solid gold. She's not entirely sure, of course, because she's never actually seen gold before. If that isn't enough, she doesn't recognize any of the dishes in front of her and it's making her feel extremely out of her depth._

"_Cat got your tongue, Winston?" a voice drawls to her left, and she jerks in surprise because she hadn't heard anyone approach. Gloss Augustine is standing next to the empty chair beside her, raising an eyebrow as he studies her skeptically. He looks a little surprised that he had caught her off guard._

_With a smirk, he pulls the chair out and sits down. "I asked if this seat was taken, but I'm going to assume that it isn't. Your frown is scaring everyone away, I think."_

_Elara grabs her water glass and mumbles, "Too bad it isn't scaring you away."_

_He laughs and starts loading his plate with food. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, very much wary of this hulking man beside her who could so easily snap her throat. Gloss isn't a man to be taken lightly. The fact that he's paying attention to her is unnerving._

"_Your speech was really awful," he tells her bluntly as he reaches for a bottle that's filled with a rose looking wine. It's smells really sweet. Gloss gives it a whiff, makes a face, and immediately puts it back down._

_She scoffs and returns, "I know. I don't care."_

_Her tone makes him look at her with eyes that are surprisingly serious. He stares at her for a good long minute before he slowly says, "You should care. You don't want to get into any trouble, do you? You're a part of the system now. You've got to follow the rules."_

_She looks confused, and he chuckles. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into," he mutters, finally settling on some dark burgundy wine. He seems to dislike wine. Elara isn't surprised. He seems more the type to favor beer._

_She doesn't know what he's talking about or why he's talking about it to her, but Elara does know that the sooner she finishes eating, the faster she can make excuses and head off to bed. So instead of answering him or questioning him on this so-called 'system', she starts digging into her soup with zeal. Gloss looks eternally amused as he watches her, like he can't believe that she's as hungry as she seems to portray._

"_So, Winston," he says as he leans back and casually takes a sip of his wine. "You seem to hate dresses, speeches, and the other Victors. What _do_ you like?"_

_Her eyes slant over to him. She raises an eyebrow and swallows her soup gracelessly. When her mouth is empty of liquid, she narrows her eyes at him. "I like silence," she curtly responds._

_Gloss's mouth curves upwards. "Well aren't you a feisty creature. Have you always been this prickly, or is this the new version of you?"_

_Her eyes fill with confusion. "New version?" she asks, unsure as to his meaning. Gloss raises an eyebrow._

"_You know. The version that can't sleep. That wakes up from nightmares every single night. That dreams of the arena. The version of you that's broken and ruined. That version," he says in an offhanded manner, but the way his eyes flicker into hers makes it apparent that he isn't joking around._

_She stares at him, not sure if she's feeling shocked or disgusted or maybe something else – a sort of unnerved realization that he's just pegged her so precisely that it's almost as if he knows exactly who she is. And yet he does. He's a Victor too._

"…_Do you…" she trails off, clears her throat, and quietly wonders, "…Do you get the nightmares too, then?"_

_They both stare at each other for a long moment. He looks like he pities her, almost. It makes her wish she could take the question back._

"_You know," he murmurs, "the one good thing about District 1 is that there's a whole lot of other Victors who can show you the ropes of your new life. But the bad thing about it is that you never get any sleep." When she sends him a baffled expression, Gloss smiles humorlessly and explains, "The Victor's Village is never quiet at night. One of us is bound to wake up screaming."_

_Well. If that's not an answer to her question, Elara doesn't know what is. She looks down at her soup and swallows thickly. Gloss just sighs._

"_Like I said, Winston, you're a part of the system now. We're all broken around here," he tells her, but she thinks he's wrong._

_The Capitol might have shaken her, and the Games might have ruined her, but they didn't break her. There's only one person who can truly break you, and that is yourself._

_Perhaps it is just as well that she doesn't yet understand how much that philosophy will be tested in the years to come._

* * *

"You like that, girl?" the gruff voice of her current client murmurs in her ear. His body covers her, pressing her into the mattress as his hands rove her skin. The posh Capitol accent that forms the cadence of his tone is heavy. The pleasure in his voice is like weights. It drags her down, and down, and down.

His fingers brush against her clit, and Elara tries to close her eyes and imagine that someone else is hovering over her, burning pleasure into her, asking her if she's enjoying herself. Only, Gloss would never ask her that. He knows her so well by now that when he makes love to her, it's almost as if he's a musician and she's his instrument, and he doesn't need words to know the notes of the song he plays into her heart.

He wouldn't touch her like this either, with these groping hands. Not that Gloss can't be grabby, but he's never made her skin bruise on purpose before. Oh, she's woken up plenty of times with love marks and bruises from him, but he had never put them on her skin with the intention of hurting her.

And – he doesn't smell like this. He doesn't feel like this. He doesn't sound like this.

It's impossible to pretend that this man is Gloss, and even as she makes one last attempt at doing so, Elara feels a little sick that she's trying at all. It's just a coping mechanism. She doesn't have a choice when it comes to her clients. She knows what happens when a Victor refuses President Snow. But, God, she can't help but feel like she's betraying Gloss somehow, by being with someone else like this. Even though it isn't by choice, and Gloss understands, and he's forced to do it too sometimes, and besides, he's a million miles away right now in District 1 and she won't be seeing him for weeks.

She still feels like she's betraying him. She thinks it's strange, how they've purposefully kept their relationship as objective as possible, at least verbally. Yet they feel so much, want so much, love so much. They've never spoken their affection aloud, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

Above her, her client groans. He grasps onto her breast and squeezes tightly, and she tries not to cringe at the rough touch. This client isn't as bad as some. He doesn't seem to get off on the sight of blood. He mainly seems to live for his own pleasure. He's selfish, greedy. She is okay with that. She prefers the selfish ones who don't try to give her pleasure in return. It is unwanted.

"Fuck, you're so hot," her client whispers in her ear, hips shuddering faster against hers. His fingers, slick with her juices, move to grasp onto the pillow beside her head as he races forward, thrusting with a sort of haphazard haste that tells Elara that he's almost done.

She does her best to spur him on, not because she wants to, but because the thought of returning to her apartment is the only thing that's keeping her afloat right now.

It's so much easier when Gloss is in the Capitol at the same time. Even if they're not together like this, on this side of intimacy, just being in his presence is soothing and calming. He could hold her all night and she wouldn't grow tired of his arms around her. Enveloping her in the scent of his skin, holding her to his chest, tracing patterns into her skin…

She misses him. She hopes that the stagnant feeling of her sentimental mind will diminish after her client falls asleep and she's able to slip out of his apartment, but it doesn't. She returns to her place with the same heavy heart, and even after showering and wrapping herself up in her bed, her thoughts are full of him.

A million miles away his thoughts are full of her, too, but there is nothing that can be done about it. Such is their life. Fate is a strange mistress, bandying its captives here and there, uncaring for the repercussion of its whims. And yet, it works in mysterious ways, and inexplicably, Fate may yet hold out some hope for the two of them, in the future to come.


	16. A sea whose depth cannot be found

**A/N: This chapter contains the first very detailed smut scene in this story, so feel free to skip the flashback entirely.**

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**Chapter Sixteen | A sea whose depth cannot be found.**

"_My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words_

_Of thy tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound."_

_2.2, 10-11 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_It's strange. Elara's been with so many people, she can't keep track of them anymore. She is no longer the innocent young girl who hadn't known anything about the intricacies of sex. She has far more experience in this particular art than most, and yet she still feels like every encounter with Gloss is a new one. It's as if she's never before seen his body or touched his skin or felt the strange mixture of comfort and joy when he slides into her. She thinks maybe she's being a little too sentimental when she thinks of his body as home, but a part of her just can't help herself. He feels more like home than anything else does, at this point. When she's with him, she forgets how terrible her life is._

_She'd like to think that the feeling goes both ways. His eyes are always so soft when he takes her, as if he thinks she's delicate and pure even though they both know she's not. Sometimes he's extremely gentle with her, so gentle that his touch is a mere caress that seems to transcend the limitations of human flesh. Other times he's rougher, wilder, but that's different, too. It isn't the same roughness that she experiences with clients, because even when he's rough, he's also gentle at the same time. It's a paradox she's only beginning to make sense of and a contradiction that she can't get enough of._

_Maybe it's just him. She's never felt such passion for someone before, not like she feels for him. His body is addicting, like a drug. She could touch him all day, run her hands over his brawny chest and spin desire into his skin, and even after being fully sated, she still wants him. She's starting to figure out why, but the thought frightens her so much that she hasn't yet had the courage to face the truths of her own heart._

_It's easier not to. Easier to pretend that the relationship they share is sexual only. That it doesn't mean anything else and never will._

_He buries his face against her stomach, sighing out as his arm winds around her thigh and his hand slips over her hip. They've gotten comfortable with each other, so much so that it's nothing at all to hold each other like this. There is an intimacy behind their embraces that goes far beyond physical desire. At least, it does for her._

_She runs her fingers through his hair and closes her eyes as she catches her breath. Her body is still smarting from the climax he had just spun through her, and her skin feels ultra sensitive. She can't hold back her shiver as he turns his head and kisses her hip, sighing out against her as if he's never felt more at peace than he does right now, in this moment, wrapped up in sheets and her._

_She's never experienced this brand of pleasure. Her clients take but do not give. Gloss does the opposite. He seems to enjoy watching her unravel just as much as he enjoys being inside of her. It's another conundrum that she wouldn't have expected from him in the beginning, when she thought that he was just a merciless Career with no heart. She had been so black and white back then. She hadn't realized that Victors, no matter who they are or where they come from, are a breed all to themselves._

_She sees Gloss differently now. He is no longer the golden Adonis of District 1, untouchable and flawless, beloved by the Capitol for being the killer who had made his Games so dramatic and inspiring. He is so much more than just that. He is haunted by his deeds, haunted by what he had done in the arena, by the deaths he had committed. He's no different from any other Victor, really, who bitterly regrets actions that were made in order to survive. Can he really be blamed for those actions? She doesn't know, but she does know that she won't be his judge._

_She's different now, too. Years of this life have changed her, altered her with such permanence that she knows she can never go back to being the person she was before. The innocence she had, even after winning her Games, is gone. She has experienced too much to ever hope to reclaim her old self. She is okay with that, though, for the most part. At least, she's okay with it when Gloss is in her arms, reminding her in so many silent ways that she is not as alone as she sometimes thinks she is._

"_Mmm…don't stop," he murmurs, voice muffled against the flat planes of her stomach. She's currently clawing her way through his hair, fingers tangled up in the light brown strands as her nails gently push and pull at his scalp. She's learned a lot about his body in the last few years of their clandestine affair. She's learned that he loves it when she kisses his neck and that when she bites his collarbone, he goes wild. She's learned that even if he's spent and satisfied, if she starts massaging his body it makes him hard and hungry for her all over again. She's learned that when she runs her fingers through his hair, he all but purrs like a cat and turns into a shivering mess._

_With a soft chuckle, Elara continues her actions, massaging the pads of her fingers over his scalp and enjoying the softness of his hair and the deep, pleased sighs that he rewards her with._

"_You're like a little kitten," she tells him, voice rife with teasing and humor. The effeminate choice of words makes him raise his body to glower up at her, apparently not appreciating her teasing tone._

"_I dare you to say that again," he mutters, spearing her with a challenging gaze that she should probably take heed of. Neither of them is particularly surprised when she doesn't._

_With an evil smirk, Elara murmurs, "A purring, happy little – mmph! Gloss! St-stop – "_

_She collapses into laughter as he starts tickling her, fingers spinning over her skin relentlessly. She tries to catch his hands, but he overpowers her as easily as breathing, and she can do nothing but try to kick him off of her as she gasps around her laughter._

"_Th-this isn't fair - !" she laughs, squealing and trying to roll over and away from him. But he just catches her, pinning her down underneath him as he crawls up her body, and for a split second Elara is completely amazed at how comfortable they are with each other. The second passes though, when he continues his torturing with renewed vigor._

_She grapples with his hands and exclaims, "Okay, okay – I take it back – "_

_He smirks victoriously and stops, sitting on top of her with a hum and drawling, "You take it back?"_

_Elara chuckles, entangles her fingers with his, and nods, "You're more like a lion anyway."_

_He rolls his eyes at her and squeezes her fingers for a moment, before lifting their hands up and shoving them over her head. He lowers himself down over her body and growls, "And you always have to have the last word."_

_She smirks up at him and shrugs. Her eyes flicker over his face and linger on his lips as she whispers, "Is that such a bad thing?"_

_He watches her, fingers tangled, body stretched out below his, staring at him with that astounding desire that always takes his breath away. With a small smile, he murmurs, "Not always."_

_She chuckles and brings her leg up, wrapping it around his waist and pressing him against her until he's nestled between her thighs. Then, with a voice full of mischief, she wonders, "Shall I make my lion roar?"_

_Gloss raises a sarcastic eyebrow at her, but he can't deny that there's something innately appealing to her words. Maybe it's the way she's referring to him as hers, as if he belongs to her. Maybe he likes that a little more than he should._

"_That was so cringeworthy, Winston," he mutters to her, resurrecting the usage of her last name, which he rarely says these days. Lately, he's found that he much prefers calling her Elara, and watching the various types of shivers that overcome her body when he uses different tones to say her name._

_She laughs and licks her lips idly. His eyes dart down to her mouth as she whispers, "Let me up."_

_He's half temped to ignore her. He quite likes this position, half captured by her leg and welcomed against her body like this. He likes the taut stretch of her underneath him and the way her warm skin feels against his. He's not sure he wants to move._

_Elara huffs at him and untangles her fingers from him to lay her hand against his chest. With a gentle push, she says, "I promise it'll be worth your while."_

_He grunts and finally allows her to have her way. Lately, he's been letting her do whatever she wants with him. He can't deny that there's something very compelling about handing over the control to her. He's found that he usually enjoys it far more than he expects to._

_As he settles back into the pillows, Elara pulls herself over his body and leans down to kiss him. Their lips melt against each other, warm and slow, as if they haven't kissed each other in weeks. It isn't true – they've spent the whole night kissing and touching and loving, and they'll probably spend tomorrow night in a similar state because they're both free and don't have any other commitments._

_He loves how she rests her whole body against his, surrendering her weight to him and pushing him down into the pillows. There's something so arousing about it and it shows in the way his body hardens against her, his length pressing up against her thigh. A little shift of her hips ensures that it soon rests against the crevice of her clit, and the heat of her makes him groan. He reaches for her hips to drag her down against him, grinding himself against her body as he lays prone beneath her. When she leans back to continue his efforts, circling her hips over him, Gloss inhales raggedly and clenches his fingers around her flesh tightly._

"_Worth my while?" he prompts, reaching between them to grasp his hardened cock. He sweeps it against her, dipping into her wet slit and watching as her eyes flutter with pleasure._

_Elara has other plans for him, though. She knocks his hand away and replaces it with her own, wrapping her fingers around his girth and thumbing her way up the length of him. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his moan from spilling out._

"_You're so impatient," she teases him, flicking her thumb over his tip and enjoying the way he shivers beneath her as a result. He glowers at her from the pillows, both loving and hating her teasing. He wants to be inside of her, to feel her heat clench down around him, to thrust deeply into her core. It's only a temporary way of marking her as his, but the thought of filling her like that is far more appealing than anything he can think of in this moment. He wants to make her his, even if only for tonight._

"_Elara…" he growls, flexing his fingers around her hips. She's right: he is impatient. Can he really be blamed? He's got a beautiful woman sitting on top of him, utterly naked and aroused because of him and him alone. He'd be a fool not to want her._

_But she doesn't bring him inside of her like he yearns for her to do. Instead, she kisses his chest, flicks her tongue over his skin as she makes her way down his body. She takes her time exploring the dip of his muscles and the planes of his stomach, even though she's already memorized him a long time ago. She doesn't rush her way down to his cock, though that is the obvious trajectory of her path as she blazes a trail down his hip with her mouth. She's slow and careful and so thorough that it takes his breath away and turns him into an aroused mess as he watches her. By the time she arrives at her destination, he's so hard that he feels like he might burst at any second._

_It isn't just her touch that inspires such desire to blossom through him; it's the way she touches him. Her lips are a cadence of passion that far surpasses physical lust. She is almost lyrical in her want of him. He's never been kissed with such desire or worshipped with such devotion. When she turns her eyes to his, the sheer reverence in her gaze makes him groan just from seeing it there, in the crease of those blue eyes._

_No, it isn't just her touch. It's every emotion that he feels behind it._

_When she wraps her lips around his cock, he completely loses it. He groans again, her name set in the low tones of his desire, and reaches to sweep the curtain of her hair out of her face. He wants to watch her devour him, wants to see more of that beautiful emotion in her eyes, as if she isn't merely touching him but rather paying homage to whatever it is that shudders through the air between them._

"_Elara," he murmurs, tangling his fingers into her hair and locking eyes with her. The sweep of mischief in them makes him exhale sharply, jaw clenching around the desire that he seems to have no control over. When it comes to her, he can't control any of his desires. It seems that they go haywire, spiraling off into the unknown before he can ever get a handle on them._

_She takes as much of him into her mouth as she can and wraps her fingers around the base of him. With every upward shift of her lips, she drags her hand up too. Her tongue flattens over his tip and spins back down the ridges of his skin, lapping over him until she takes him back into the heat her mouth and starts all over again._

_When she traces her fingers over his anatomy further down, massaging her touch against him, Gloss grits his teeth as his hips shudder into her. His fingers clench down into her hair and he can't stop his moan from bursting into existence. She's become very comfortable with his body and he loves it, but right now it's almost torturous. He wants to come so badly but he doesn't want to do it here and now._

"_Damn it Elara for fuck's sake – " he starts, and she pulls away to chuckle._

"_That's pretty apt," she purrs, hot breath wavering over him. "For fuck's sake, I mean." She chuckles again and he glowers at her, pulling her face against him impatiently because she can't just stop, damn it._

_With a glare, Gloss grinds out, "You're too fucking good at this."_

_She smiles, kissing the tip of him with mischievous intent and then sweeping her hand firmly up his cock. She watches him shiver into the mattress and loves every second of it. Seeing him in this state, helpless almost, is astoundingly erotic to her. Knowing that she is responsible for it, that he's letting her have her way even though he could overpower her at any moment – it's addicting. And, to add to her pleasure, his compliment is very appealing to her. Not that she can't already see that he's enjoying her touch, but there's something very delicious hearing him say it out loud._

"_Do you want me to fuck you?" she murmurs lowly, catching his eye as she hovers over him. He shivers again – God, it's a beautiful sight – and clenches his jaw so hard that it almost looks like he's angry with her. But she knows that it isn't anger shuddering over his face. No, it's something much more enchanting._

_With a glower that only makes him more attractive to her, Gloss growls, "Should I say please and thank you?" His sarcastic tone makes her laugh._

_She pushes her hand up his hip, smoothing her fingers over his side on her path back up his body. As she nestles herself back over him and leans down to kiss him, she playfully whispers, "Only if you want to." Their lips brush together just barely, and she shuffles her hips over him until she feels his cock against her heat._

_He growls at her again, but doesn't say anything at all when he reaches for his length. She doesn't need him to say anything. Gloss isn't really the 'please and thank you' type of person, and she's already teased him enough for now. As he lines himself up to her, she pushes her body back to take him into her and closes her eyes as she feels him stretch out her inner walls._

_He watches her as she takes him. There's just something about her expression whenever he fills her like this. Something so addicting that he can never look away from her face when he pushes his cock as far into her as he can. It's like she's never felt so at peace than she does when they become one. Like she's lost every other second of the day, and the only time she feels complete is when she has him buried deep inside of her._

_He can relate to that feeling. Being inside of her makes him feel like he's whole, too, as if she's a sanctuary that's his and his alone._

_He knows it isn't true. They don't really belong to each other, not truly. If anything, they are merely a small haven of comfort that never lasts beyond the confines of these four walls. In public they are strangers at worst, friends at best, but never really together. Not like this. Not in any way that matters._

_She moves over him like a wave, undulating to the tempo of his thrusts as he grapples with her hips and presses up to meet her. He doesn't seem to know where to look, what part of her to watch. Every part of her is beautiful._

_He drags one arm over her waist and brings her down against him, enjoying the feeling of her breasts pillowing out over his chest. She buries her face into his neck as he holds her in place, pinning her against him. Then, moving both his hands down to firmly grasp her ass, he pivots his hips into her with an almost angry intent, filling her with hard thrusts that turns her into a gasping, keening mess against him. She raises herself up a little, pushing her elbows on either side of his head to give him more momentum, and moans his name loudly with such passion that he swears he's never heard a more appealing sound in his life._

_This is what being with her feels like: it's like coming home after an excruciatingly long, tiring day. Like being rejuvenated so completely that he can't even remember how exhausted he had been, before, or how much abuse he has endured at the hands of the Capitol, or how lonely he is sometimes, when the nights are long and endless and his nightmares play out horrific memories that he wishes he could erase. It's like sitting in the sunlight of District 1, back before he had foolishly volunteered for the very thing that has ruined his life so irrevocably. It's like feeling warm in a world that is cold, like feeling wanted for more than the person he pretends to be when he's in public and has to act a certain way. It's like feeling loved even though he knows he doesn't deserve it, after what he's done and the lives he's taken, but somehow he does and – he doesn't really understand why, but he can't bring himself to turn away from it._

"_Gloss, mmm…Gloss," she moans, her voice nearly a whisper of sound, so soft and beautifully reverent that he changes his mind. _This_ is the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. This quiet, worshipful sound that leaves her lips and sequesters itself against his skin. This harrowingly exquisite sound that makes him moan and hold her tighter and turn his head to watch her expression as he feels her clench around him and come._

_Her face is a masterpiece of passion. She breaks for him, locking her eyes with his as if she's transmitting herself into him in just the same manner as he's doing to her. This equality, this reciprocity that shudders through their connected bodies – it's unlike anything he's ever experienced. It's an ocean of give and take, an even exchange of something that he still can't quite define, but isn't so mysterious to him anymore. It's the edge of something that should frighten him, but he's far too gone in the depths of his own passions to question it, or to wonder why it seems to bridge the gap between their bodies in such a potent way._

_He spills himself into her with a low moan, muffled against her neck as she cranes her body over his. For several astoundingly perfect seconds, his hips shudder against hers. Release overpowers him, and he can do nothing but surrender to the pull of it. He can hardly breathe around the enormity of this feeling, and even when their bodies slowly cease and she lays down on top of him with a deep sigh, Gloss can only lay there and hold her against him as if she is a lifeline that he hadn't known he needed._

_Neither of them says anything as they lay there. After several lengthy minutes pass them by, Elara turns her head and kisses his jaw languidly. She starts to roll off of him but he doesn't let her, and merely holds her tighter as their legs tangle together._

_She chuckles. "You know I can't stay much longer," she murmurs against him. She's already stayed nearly the whole night. Dawn is fast approaching, and sleep has been entirely optional. They needed this. It's been several weeks since they'd last seen each other._

_But she's right. She can't stay. Sometimes they're able to get away with slow mornings and breakfasts and sleeping in till noon, but this morning they both have busy schedules. He has a big photoshoot with one of the more upscale companies in the city, and she has an interview. She needs to make sure she gets a little sleep for that, otherwise the magazine that is interviewing her will have a field day with all their speculations._

_Gloss only hums sleepily and drags a warm, callused hand up her back. He tangles his fingers into the back of her hair and turns her face to his, leaning in to kiss her. Their lips move effortlessly, like the softest hint of a breeze._

"_Stay a little longer," he whispers against her mouth, and rolls them over so that they're side by side, wrapped up in the warmth of the other's body._

_She sighs out contentedly. "…Just a little…" she breathes, wrapping her arm around his back and hooking a leg over his waist. She nestles herself against him and tilts her lips back to his, pressing chaste kisses over his mouth._

_This. It's beautiful. And she thinks, as she lays there in the protection of his arms, that if she was ever allowed to love someone, it would be him._

_It would be him._

* * *

"What the hell are you doing?" Amelia asks, standing at the entrance of the gated garden that spans the side of their house. She's staring at her sister with cautious eyes. Her expression is slightly horrified.

Elara looks over at her and rolls her eyes. "What do you think I'm doing, you brat?" she demands, and pulls out another tall tuft of grass that's overgrowing throughout the entire space. There's already a tall pile of them next to her kneeling form and she's barely a quarter of the way finished.

Alright, she'll admit that she isn't much of a gardener. She's planted a few things here and there in the summer months. Some tomatoes and cucumbers and other vegetables, mainly. Actually tending to the garden isn't something she necessarily enjoys though. It's been far too long since she's gone out to weed. Amelia had probably forgotten that there were even plants in here to begin with.

"You look like you've been rolling around the dirt," Amelia deadpans, crossing her arms. It's misting very lightly, which is pretty normal for District 5. The weather around here is usually damp and wet.

Elara glowers at her and quips, "Well if you actually did something besides tagging buildings with your damned graffiti, I wouldn't have to get this dirty."

It's a slightly round about thing to say, she'll admit that. It's just that she'd recently gotten another notice from Amelia's school, informing her that she's been failing several of her classes and hadn't even bothered showing up for a few days in a row while Elara was in the Capitol. She's aggravated at the girl for being so irresponsible. She can't keep doing this. If she keeps getting into trouble, something is bound to happen. Elara isn't sure her reputation as a Victor will be able to fix everything, especially considering how Amelia's teachers seem to be disregarding it more than not lately.

Amelia raises an eyebrow at the frustrated tone of Elara's voice. She shrugs offhandedly and says, "I do plenty of things. You're just not around to see it. You're in the Capitol all the time."

Her voice is matter-of-fact, but it only annoys Elara that much more. The subject of her Capitol summons always puts her in a bad mood, especially right after she returns from one of her prolonged visits. She glares at Amelia and snaps, "Get your head out of your ass, Amelia. You know I can't keep saving you forever – "

Amelia cuts her off with a surprisingly vindictive, "Seriously?! You're not around often enough to keep me out of trouble, Elara. You're gone all the time, fucking around with random men – "

"It's not like I asked for this life!" Elara shouts, standing up in the middle of the garden and glaring at her sister with furious eyes. Amelia only glares right back, just as furious.

"What the hell do you want from me?" she demands, grasping the iron gate with white knuckles.

Elara laughs cutting and shrugs, "Oh I don't know. Maybe for you to grow the fuck up and stop tagging buildings and skipping school like a _child_. You're eighteen years old, Amelia. When I was your age – "

"You're gonna play the age card with me?" Amelia sneers. "When you were my age you were a goddamned mess. You're have absolutely no right to pretend like you're my mother. Our mom is dead, and it's your FUCKING FAULT!"

Elara jerks back like she's been slapped and stares at Amelia with shocked eyes. Her heart lurches in her chest. The truth of her words is astoundingly clear and almost concrete. They feel like solid weights that hang around Elara's neck like a curse she can't get rid of. It's a truth that she's carried with her for years, blaming herself for their parent's deaths because she couldn't have just said yes the first time Snow asked her to sell her body to strangers in order to fund his great city. She just had to pretend that she still had some free will. That she had control over what she did and didn't so. What a joke it is. She has no more free will than a dog on a leash.

Amelia deflates after her shout, turning her eyes to the ground as if she feels somewhat bad for the words that had risen so quickly to her lips. If she could take them back, she would. But like a festering wound, they hang in the air between them and only grow in strength as the silence continues its unrelenting passage.

"…Elara, I – " she begins to say, but Elara just laughs and shakes her head.

It's a humorless sound. Painful almost. She stares at the cluster of weeds she's still gripping in her hand and tosses them to the ground. Her eyes have turned expressionless and dull. It's a sight that Amelia is somewhat used to seeing, and it isn't one that she likes.

Her sister is a ghost. She's not the same person she used to be, before she was Reaped into the system that has taken everything from her. She's been stripped her away and left as a husk of who she was before. She's gone half the time, catering to the whims of that system, doing indescribable things that makes Amelia sick to her stomach. And she does blame her, a little, for the deaths of their parents, but she understands too. She knows that she is the reason Elara goes to the Capitol so often. She knows that if Elara refuses again, then she'll be the next target.

"I'm going to the dock," Elara says, and ducks her head as she passes Amelia on her way out of the garden. Amelia doesn't try to stop her. She just watches her walk away and frowns.

The sister she used to know died when their parents died. The sister she is left with is this broken creature made of dirt and mud. There's only one thing that puts a familiar spark into Elara's eyes. Only one person who can make her smile with the same sense of self that she used to possess, back when she was happy and confident and ordinary. But he isn't here, and he never has been, and he never will be. Gloss Augustine is as much broken as Elara Winston is. Maybe that's why they work so well together – because combined, their broken souls resemble something a little more complete.


	17. This stormy tempest perforates the skies

**A/N: More smut in this chapter. Skip the flashback if you'd like! It does feel strange to post smut on this site. I hope I'm not scaring you all away ;D**

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen | This stormy tempest perforates the skies,**

"_I talk of dreams;_

_Which are the children of an idle brain,_

_Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;_

_Which is as thin of substance as the air,_

_And more inconstant than the wind."_

_1.4, 96-100 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

"_How was your photoshoot?" Elara wonders as she flips a couple of pancakes with a spatula. She's got her hair pulled back this morning, twisted into a messy bun that would make Ignatius utterly horrified. Gloss likes it, though. He likes the way it makes her hair frame her face when small tendrils escape the style to curl around her cheekbones. It softens her in a way that makes her astoundingly lovely, especially when she stands in the little patch of sunlight that slants into the windows of her kitchen._

_He grunts, filling a mug with some coffee. His own hair is just as mussed up, mainly from her running her hands through it in the way he loves so much. He's thrown on a pair of boxer briefs but nothing else, and the appreciative little glances Elara's been sending him all morning makes his heart do funny things in his chest._

"_Fine," is all he says, leaning against the counter to give her a thorough look over. Her back is turned to him, so she doesn't notice the way his eyes linger on her ass. The short nightshirt she's wearing just barely covers it. He knows for a fact that she's got nothing on underneath it, which only makes him crazier._

"_I've got an appointment at three today," she says. "But it's only for an hour. We could have dinner if you want?"_

_Dinner, breakfast, sometimes even lunch – their relationship has definitely become something more than just an occasional romp. Luckily no one seems to think it's strange for them to sometimes be seen entering and leaving each other's apartments. The tabloids like to make a fuss of it, but they've both adamantly denied any feelings that people speculate they share. The fact that they're both seen going out on 'dates' with other high ranking Capitolites certainly helps make their story more believable. That, and Cashmere's occasional presence also helps. No one has really questioned them when they claim friendship._

_They are friends, after all. They're friends who sometimes have sex. There doesn't have to be anything more. Right?_

_Behind her, Gloss grunts, puts down the coffee mug, and steps up to her. "I've got a client tonight. Dinner and a date."_

_He says the words casually on purpose. He doesn't have to explain anything to her. It isn't as if he loves her or anything. Just because they sometimes turn to each other for comfort doesn't mean anything._

_His body nestles behind hers, and he fits his hips against the curve of her ass with a faint smirk. She stiffens just a little bit at the feeling of his arousal jutting up against her, and drawls, "Really? I thought we were eating breakfast. I'm hungry."_

_He chuckles and slips his hands around her hips, pushing his fingers beneath the fabric of her shirt. "So am I," he says, but the tone of his voice makes it apparent that he isn't talking about the pancakes she's making._

"_So not tonight then," she says, trying not to sound disheartened. It's relatively easy actually, because his hand is skimming down her body and cupping her between her legs, and the breathless cadence of her words help to cover up any lingering disappointment she may or may not be feeling. The prospect of spending the night alone is just boring, that's all. She likes sleeping beside him. He makes for a wonderful distraction._

_Gloss hums, sliding his fingers over her flesh. He watches her shoulders shudder just so and leans down to kiss her neck._

"_Maybe tomorrow night," he tells her, sinking his teeth gently into the crux of her shoulder. His free hand tugs down the shoulder of her shirt so that he can trail his mouth over her flesh more freely._

_Elara sighs, tilting her head back and shifting her hips up against his cock. The hard press of him against her is addicting. Around her moan, she responds, "Can't. Seneca Crane is taking me out."_

_He growls a little bit, annoyed at their conflicting schedules, and sinks his fingers into her clit. She gasps, spread her thighs a bit to give him more access, and barely manages to remember to plate the pancakes and turn the stove off before she feels him pull his briefs down his legs and kick them away._

"_What about the night after?" he inquires as he thrusts his fingers into her, one hand reaching up to grasp her breast. He nips at her earlobe and spins his thumb around the top of her clit, enjoying the little sounds that she's rewarding him with. She makes the most addicting noises…_

_Breathlessly, she answers, "Maybe. I can't remember if I have someone that night – Gloss, god I want you."_

_He chuckles into her ear. He doesn't know why he likes it when she tells him things like that. Maybe it plays on some sense of masculinity. Maybe he just enjoys the sound of her honesty when it's captured like this. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that he's got a wanting woman in front of him._

"_Yeah?" he murmurs, and catches her waist to hold her as he wraps his hand around his cock. A moment later, he's pushing himself into her easily. She's still wet from earlier that morning, when he had woken her up with his head between her legs, and he fills her without any problem whatsoever._

_She moans, holding onto the counter tightly and arching her hips into his. They've never done it like this before, which is saying something. Gloss is nearly insatiable and Elara has a weak constitution regarding his desires, which are profound when he's in the right mood. This morning is apparently one of those moods._

_He starts thrusting at a fast pace, but she's so ready for him that all Elara can do it hold onto the counter and moan. The tops of his thigh brush the backs of hers. She bends over a little and he growls appreciatively, holding onto her waist tightly. His thrusts pick up to an even faster pace and she mutters a particularly foul curse because she can't remember ever feeling so good. Every new moment with Gloss is even better than the last, it seems._

"_When are you going back to District 5?" he asks her, his voice just as breathless as hers is. His eyes hungrily take in the arch of her back, the perfect ass that he's holding onto, the angular lines of her shoulder blades. A part of him still has no idea how they got to where they are now. Their relationship is one that he can hardly define, most days. It's only when they're together again that he decides they don't really need to define it after all. Some things aren't meant to be caged into words alone._

_She moans loudly and haltingly responds, "Mm – I'm leaving on Friday. Gloss – ooh!"_

_She raises herself up and he gathers her in his arms, pulling her body so that it aligns with his. He's not able to thrust as quickly like this, but he makes up for it by grabbing her breasts and moaning into her shoulder as he bites down on her flesh. One hand lowers to spin at the top of her clit, pressing against her and making her moan even wilder at the pleasure that shakes through her body. His touch is fire and it makes her wonder how she can live without it._

_She's been missing him much more lately, when they part ways. They never say goodbye. Sometimes their departures from the Capitol are sporadic and haphazard. Even when they get the spend the night together before one of the leaves, though, their relationship isn't something that requires greetings or goodbyes. She tells herself she doesn't want it to be, but she's not really sure of what she wants, anymore._

"_Spread your legs a little more," he tells her, squeezing her breast teasingly as she lowers herself back down and shifts her feet further apart. He growls at the pleasure it brings him and moves faster._

"_You're so perfect," he mumbles with a groan, and he can't stop himself from thundering faster as his end catches up to him, sweeping him off into the cadences of more undefined feelings he'd rather ignore, for now. He's not quite ready to see her in a different light yet. She's not quite ready to either, but they both know that there's something else there, skirting around the edges of their purely physical relationship and making it into something more._

_She moans when she feels him fill her, his heat blistering through her with such potency that she can barely breathe. And then, even though he's spent, his hand hooks around her body to rub against her clit, his cock still inside of her, and he brings her to her finish with a careful touch that is so unlike any other man she's ever been with._

_Maybe that's why she can't get enough of him. Maybe it's because he wants her to feel just as satisfied as he does. Her clients don't care about her pleasure. They take and take and take, and Gloss takes too, but he also gives. He's given her so much over the last few years that sometimes she wonders at the mismatched feelings that linger in her chest whenever he's around._

_After she climaxes, he chuckles and pulls away, squeezing her ass as he looks down to see the remnants of his finish glistening against her. There's something strangely appealing about the sight of it marking her._

_When she straightens up and catches her breath, Elara gives him a wry look and says, "Are you gonna let me eat breakfast now? The pancakes are probably cold."_

_He laughs and pulls her against him, shucking off the shirt that's still loosely hanging from her frame. It falls to the tiled floor with a flourish of fabric._

"_I'd rather take a shower first," he says with a shrug of his brawny shoulders, and looks down at her flushed, satisfied body with a proud gleam in his eyes. "Besides," he adds as he glances up at her face, "If you're leaving on Friday, we should probably make the most of the time we have left."_

_Elara's mouth twists into a smile. She rests her hands on his chest and quips, "Well I can't entirely argue with that."_

_He grins crookedly at her and drags her back into the bedroom. The pancakes are completely cold when they finally sit down to eat them, hours later._

* * *

Elara is soaked through when she returns to the house several hours later. Amelia is nowhere to be found, and she's somewhat grateful for it. The harsh words they had exchanged earlier still ring in her ears. Guilt eats away at her. She wants to be alone for as long as she is able.

She's shivering and feeling altogether sorry for herself when she pads into the kitchen. A quick trip to the closet, and she rummages around for the bottle of wine she'd hidden in the back, away from Amelia's prying eyes. It's still where she'd left it. She takes the whole thing upstairs with her, cradled in her arms like its suddenly her most precious possession. Some part of her is aware that it's rather pitiful of her, but she's feeling too sorry for herself to care. In any case, it isn't as if she's a drunkard who relies of alcohol to get her through her nightmares. She's got other cures for those. It just that right now, none of those cures are in District 5.

Images of sheets and skin trickle through her mind as she steps upstairs and enters her bedroom. She misses him, but then, that's not exactly new. Will she ever not miss him? The thought only makes her feel even more pitiful, and she tries to turn her mind to other avenues.

She places the wine bottle on her nightstand and starts shucking off her wet clothes, not caring that they're dripping with water. Usually she'd be more careful, but she doesn't have the energy to clean up after herself today and so they just get thrown into the far corner and are promptly forgotten. After a quick shower in which she uses up most of the hot water, Elara steps back into her room and pulls on an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of comfortable cotton pants. The misty skies from earlier have long since tapered to a concentrated rain. It hits the windows hard, pelting against the glass as an angry wind makes it rattle in the frame. She's not sure where Amelia has gone off to, but she hopes the girl isn't out in that weather.

With a heavy sigh, she plops down onto her bed and bundles herself up in her blankets, wet hair and all. Then, uncorking the wine with the bottle opener she'd brought up with her, she takes a large swig of it and gulps it down.

She stares out the window at the grey pallor of late afternoon and tries not to think about how pathetic she is right now. She also tries not to think about where Amelia is or what Gloss is doing in District 1 or if he misses her just as much as she misses him or what her life would be like if her parents were still around. She doesn't do a very good job, on any of those points.

Her mind flies back and forth between her worries like a lightning storm. Amelia, Gloss, her parents. Amelia, Gloss, her parents. She takes another sip of wine and laughs at herself. It's a bitter sound, comprised of bitter tones, and even though there's nothing at all funny about her life right now, for some reason she can't stop.

God, she's so stupid for ever saying no to President Snow in the first place. Stupid for not heeding the words of her fellow Victors back then, when they had warned her about the repercussions of refusing a direct order from the devil himself. She's stupid for being such a coward. She's stupid for falling in love with a man she can never be with. Maybe she's even stupid for thinking that he loves her back.

Does Gloss even know how to love? Does she? Victors can't love. They're not capable of it. They're too broken, like shattered glass that's been halfheartedly taped back together. What if all this time, she's been deluding herself? What if Gloss is having a grand old time over in District 1, fooling around with someone who isn't her and not giving a damn because he's never loved her in the first place? She doesn't know what he does when he returns home. Cashmere says he'd marry her if he had the chance, but maybe she was just being kind to her, telling her things that aren't true just to give her hope that doesn't exist.

She curls into her blankets with a scornful frown. She's being ridiculous. She knows Gloss. She knows what's in his heart. She doesn't need him to say it out loud. She knows.

It's just, sometimes, she thinks she might love him more than he loves her. She thinks she's the weaker link. Every relationship has a weaker link, right? They aren't even in an official relationship, which somehow makes her feel weaker than ever.

She's not sure how long she stays bundled up in bed. The sky begins to darken, until they are black and tumultuous, and the rainstorm begins to pick up with heavy winds that thunder against her window panes. She eventually falls asleep with the bottle of wine on the bedside table, half empty. When she groggily wakes up again, it's to the sound of the phone blaring through the silence. A quick look at the clock tells her that it's eight thirty.

She stumbles up just as her bedroom door opens and Amelia pokes her head in, holding the phone in her hands. Her eyes cut across the room, taking in Elara's ruffled state and the bottle of wine, but she doesn't say anything about either. Instead she just hands Elara the phone and silently takes her leave, for once not making a sly comment. That in and of itself is proof of her regret regarding their argument. Elara sighs, sits back down onto her mattress, and brings the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" she asks hoarsely, wondering who would call at this time of night. Inside, she already knows, but it's better not to jump to conclusions just in case she's wrong.

"You sound terrible," Gloss's voice crackles into existence, and Elara closes her eyes as a harsh wave of pain catapults through her. His voice is both a balm and a curse. It soothes her, yet makes her miss him even more.

She snorts and rolls onto her back, bundling herself back into her blankets as she mutters, "What do you want?"

They rarely call each other. Snow pays close attention to his Victors, especially his popular ones that come to the Capitol more often than some of the others. But it's been almost three months since she's seen him last, and it feels so good to hear his voice again after what feels like an eternity of silence.

"You don't sound very happy to hear from me," he notes. In the background, she hears the sound of a mattress shifting, and figures that he's probably in bed too, most likely trying to get a bit of privacy from his sister.

She sighs and buries her face into her pillow, balancing the phone on her cheek and grudgingly admitting, "I've had a bad day."

He grunts, and says, "Amelia mentioned that. How are you feeling now?"

She's not sure how to answer that question because she's not sure _how_ she's feeling. Her mind is a little hazy from the wine, which helps to dull the whirlwind of her thoughts. She's certainly not feeling good, but perhaps…better.

"…Alright," is her vague response, but Gloss seems to understand. As a Victor himself, he's had plenty of days like the one she's had. Every Victor does. It comes with the title.

"Cashmere told me you went out to lunch," he murmurs after a short silence. There's something slightly wary about his tone, as if he isn't sure he should bring the subject up to begin with.

Elara hums, then haltingly says, "We always go out to lunch."

He chuckles. "She told me what you talked about."

At this, she falls silent. Half of her is mortified that he knows they were talking about a marriage that will never happen. The other half is amused that he is talking about it at all. Gloss isn't really the type to talk about his emotions, no matter what shape they manifest as.

In a careful voice, he tells her, "…I don't think I could get used to that rain, though." She laughs at this, her voice colored with a surprise that Gloss immediately catches onto, and he adds, "You'd have to come to District 1. Amelia would like it."

How is it that he always makes her feel so much better, after just a few sentences? She snuggles into her blankets, conjuring images of a life that she knows will never play out. It's all one big pipedream, terrible and beautiful at the same time. It would be far easier to not consider such a life at all, but…well. She can't entirely blame herself. It's Gloss's fault for bringing it up, in any case.

She suddenly feels so ridiculous for doubting him only hours before. She truly must have been in a bad place to have those thoughts.

"It's a nice dream," she tells him quietly, sobering up to the knowledge that a dream is all it is. Just the wisp of a dream that will never be theirs. A silly desire that will never equate to anything more than sentiments.

He doesn't respond. On the other side of the phone, hundreds of miles away, Gloss stares at window of his bedroom. The sun is fading, here. Some of its rays still linger in the glow of late sunset, slowly morphing the desert into a stretch of dark sand. She's right, it is a nice dream. He's never been interested in marriage, really. He never thought he was the marriage type. It's funny, how she changes so many things. How she makes him yearn for things that he never would have cared about, before.

He glances over to the other side of the bed and imagines that she's there, her auburn hair haloing out around her head, blue eyes twinkling with the tones of mischief that he loves so much. If she was here, he would gather her up in his arms and show her how much he's missed her. How empty he feels without her around. How boring life is without her sarcastic wit.

It is a nice dream, but he isn't foolish enough to think that it is his to claim. They both belong to the Capitol, and they always will.

"You sound tired," he finally says, stretching out his legs and throwing an arm behind his head. He leans back, closing his eyes and listening to the faint sound of ruffling sheets. It's so easy to imagine that she's here in his bed. He can almost feel her warmth.

She hums and murmurs, "…I fell asleep before you called."

In response, he shortly wonders, "Nightmares?"

She tells him, "Not yet," as if she's sure that they'll come around eventually, knocking at the door of her mind to plague her as always. The nightmares are always bad during these long stretches of time between their meetings. It's as if the absences trigger them, turning them darker and more terrible the longer their separation lasts. It's the same for him. The only time he's able to get a full night's sleep is when she's there.

"We'll talk until you fall asleep," he says. "Maybe it'll keep them away."

At this, she chuckles and tiredly quips, "The electricity bill will be huge."

He smiles. "It's worth it," he tells her. At least to him, it is. He'd give away a lot moreif it meant he could be with her for the rest of his life.

Elara hums again. He's not sure if it's a sound of agreement or not, but she doesn't argue with him.

They do talk, though, for hours. They talk about what Gloss has been up to in District 1, what sort of trouble Amelia has been getting into lately, and how Cashmere has been. They talk about Elara's parents a bit, though they don't get too involve in that subject. It's not a smart topic to discuss in depth over the phone. Their conversation is mundane, almost. Anyone listening in on it would probably call it boring. But to be honest, it doesn't matter what they're actually discussing, as long as they can hear each other's voices. And the sound of his voice does wonders when it comes to bringing some semblance of peace to Elara's harried mind.

She does end up falling asleep as their conversations stretch out, peppered with silences that speak to their combined exhaustion. Gloss listens to the sound of her breath over the phone for a long time, silently lying in bed with the phone against his ear and his eyes closed. He drifts in and out of sleep too. It's the most comfortable sleep he's had in months.

At around midnight, Elara wakes up again. The phone is still resting on her cheek and she can still hear Gloss's breath on the other end, deep and slow as if he's also sleeping. She lays there for a long time, before quietly murmuring, "I'd give anything to be with you right now…"

She doesn't think he hears the words. He sounds like he's deep asleep. But she's wrong.

A hundred miles away in District 1, he opens his eyes and stares at the opposite wall. The longing in her voice is remarkably familiar to what he feels in his chest.

He doesn't answer her.

Some things are better left unsaid.


	18. And measured in these limitations, bound

**Chapter Eighteen | And measured in these limitations, bound:**

"_If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark."_

_2.1, 33 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Elara Winston has gotten used to being a Victor, but what she has not and will not ever get used to is mentoring for the Hunger Games. The first year after her own victory had been the hardest. With no idea as to how to actually advise two kids that are already destined to die, she had stumbled her way through the ordeal gracelessly. The tributes that year probably hadn't thought very highly of her. She wouldn't have blamed them for it._

_She hadn't won her Games because she had a strategy. In her mind, it had been more luck and a burning need to survive than anything else. She had only killed a few tributes, and only because they had attacked her first. In her arena, she'd been the quiet one who skirted around the danger instead of throwing herself headlong into it. The only time she had killed with intention had been at the very end, when it had been just her and one other tribute. She had lured him to his death with a trap of her own making. Having been in the final countdown, Harley had finally managed to get her some sponsors to help her out._

_Rigging the lake with electricity had been the easy part. Luring the final tribute to said lake and pushing him into it had been slightly more difficult, especially since he had been twice her size and extremely brawny. She'd almost fallen into her own trap in the process. It was only by some stroke of luck that she'd been able to overpower him enough to send him flying backwards off the rock that had become the scene of their final eulogy. The moment his skin met water, the electrical current zapped him to a long death._

_The sound of his watery screams still haunts her, as does the sight of him flailing in the lake before his body had effectively short circuited._

_In any case, District 5 has two mentors now, but even though this is her second year coming to the Capitol for this purpose, Elara is not very happy to be here. There's only one thing that makes her feel better, and that is the fact that Gloss will be there too. It's been a while since she's seen him last. They had parted rather abruptly the last time they'd been together in the Capitol. She's looking forward to seeing him again. He's become…a friend, of sorts. It's a funny way of describing their connection, but it somehow fits._

_He understands her in ways very few people do. It isn't just because they're both Victors, or that Snow manipulates them similarly, or even that they have the same nightmares and fear the same things. She likes being around Gloss. He makes her laugh. He makes her feel like life isn't so bad after all, as if there's a silver lining to the stormy cloud that constantly hangs over them. That's what friendship is, right? She likes to think so. They occasionally take their clothes off and do things to each other that redefines that term entirely but – it's still friendship. Their own brand of it._

_She likes to think that he sees her as a friend too. But suddenly she isn't so sure of that._

_She's on her way to the public viewing room at the top of the Tribute Center, where Harley told her he'd be. It's only the second day of the Games and they have one tribute alive. The other died in the bloodbath the day before. Harley isn't much of a mentor. He's not very helpful, really, but Elara's hoping that she'll learn a little bit from him anyway. She's not a very good mentor, either._

_In any case, she's about to turn the corner when she hears a low, aggravated voice hiss, "Would you stop pestering me about this? I told you there isn't anything else to it, Cash."_

_It's Gloss. She'd recognize his voice anywhere. There's a tone to it though, that makes her pause. Curiosity makes her linger by the corner, out of sight. The viewing room is a few halls down, but she somehow feels like it would be awkward to interrupt an obviously private moment between the District 1 siblings. Cashmere already dislikes Elara, and their desire to avoid each other is largely apparent to everyone else._

"_I'm not fucking blind, Gloss. I know there's more to it than what you're telling me," Cashmere snaps back. Their voices are quiet, as if they don't want anyone overhearing their words. It makes Elara edge back a little, deciding perhaps that she should just take the long way through the halls. She isn't usually the type of eavesdrop. It makes her feel awkward._

_She stops, though, when Gloss growls, "There's nothing else to it. We meet up, we fuck, and then we leave when we're done. There's no emotion behind it at all."_

_Even though her name isn't mentioned, Elara knows then that they're talking about her. Gloss had just described their relationship in a nutshell, after all. Meet, fuck, leave. But – no emotion? She hadn't been aware of that._

_Not that she's in love with him of course, but that doesn't mean there's no emotion in the act they occasionally perform. There's joy in it, comfort, maybe even peace. Yet the way Gloss talks, it sounds that to him it's all just a mechanical process that he could do with anyone, with the exact results._

_Elara rubs the back of her neck and presses herself into the wall. Gloss can do whatever he wants with other people. She doesn't care. What she cares about is that apparently he doesn't feel the same sort of bond that she feels towards him. Even if that bond is only made from the comforting presence of his body beside hers, shouldn't that be enough? Perhaps not._

_Around the corner, Cashmere's voice snarks, "It's different for women. I just don't want you to get into something you don't understand. I see the way she looks at you – "_

"_We're friends," Gloss interrupts. His voice is a little further away now, as if he's walking out of the conversation. In an annoyed voice, he tells his sister, "If she feels something more for me then that's her problem. She's a good lay. That's all I see in her."_

_Elara purses her lips and looks down, staring hard at the tiled floor of the hallway. She isn't necessarily surprised at Gloss's harsh words. She knows him well enough by now to understand how he is. He skirts around emotional ties like they're too much effort for him to invest in, but Elara thinks he's just afraid of emotions altogether. He's got a classical case of commitment-phobia. Not that she wants commitment from him, of course._

_Cashmere apparently thinks otherwise. Her voice barks, "You're an idiot, Gloss. You're gonna get yourself in so much trouble if Snow finds out what you're doing. He already suspects that something's up. He's not blind."_

_Gloss counters with a gruff, "I don't fucking care. It's none of your business anyway so leave it alone."_

_Their voices begin to fade off as they walk away, their argument continuing down the hall. The Golden Siblings of the Capitol aren't as perfect as they appear, but what siblings are? Their footsteps disappear and Elara hears a door slam, but she doesn't move from her spot._

_Pressed against the wall, she tilts her head back and frowns at the ceiling. Since when did she start caring about what Gloss thinks of her, anyway? Or Cashmere for that matter. She knows it's dangerous to enjoy her time with Gloss as much as she does. For some reason, though, it hadn't felt so dangerous when she'd thought that Gloss valued her as much as she does him._

_Now she isn't so sure._

_Is she really just a good lay and nothing else? She supposes that she should be grateful that he's even still interested in her at all. The fact that he keeps coming back to her even after nearly two years into their affair, or whatever it is, should be a shock in and of itself. She must be fairly good in bed to keep him hooked. But is that really all she is to him?_

_That's all she wants to be, surely. But why does her heart hurt so much? Why does his words make her feel so small and useless? She shouldn't care, so why does she?_

_It's a mystery that isn't really such a mystery, if she really thinks about it. And she does – think about it that is, all the way back down the elevator to the District 5 suite. She's still thinking about it later that evening when she should be focused on other things, like trying to keep her remaining tribute alive._

_She thinks about it for a long time, even though she doesn't truly need to, because she already knows why Gloss's words have affected her so much. She's just too afraid to admit them to herself._

_Can you fall in love with someone that you barely see? That you sometimes take comfort in and then say goodbye to once you're finished, because you're not really supposed to be with them to begin with? Can you love an object that belongs to President Snow? Because that's what Victors really are, after all. They're things that are tossed around like dolls to fulfill their purposes. Soulless objects that belong to others, but never to themselves._

_It is possible that she loves Gloss? She's told herself so many times that she can't fall for him. She's hammered it into her mind that he's only a way to forget how shitty her life is. He isn't a true cure for her personal demons – just an occasional fix. That's all. He would never fall for her. He just isn't the type of man to surrender to such silly feelings._

_Yet suddenly Elara thinks that perhaps _she's_ silly enough to do exactly that._

* * *

When Elara steps off the train and into the station at the Capitol, she doesn't expect any deviation from her usually schedule. Her apartment is across the city and she'll need to wave down a taxi. She's in the Capitol for about a week and a half this time around, so she'll have to go out and get some groceries for her stay. She's brought most of her other essentials with her from District 5. The less she has to venture out into society, the better.

She's made the walk down from the District 5 terminal to the train station foyer hundreds of time by now, but never on any of those walks has she experienced what she is about to.

She is just walking around the corner when suddenly her arm is being snatched up, and she's being pulled into a body that feels very familiar to her. Her reaction is immediate: she gasps and pulls back, eyes searching his face as a wide smile spreads over hers, and then Elara throws her arms around him and hugs him tightly. Gloss chuckles and pulls her closer against him, burying his face against her neck as he leans down over her form.

"You jerk – you always push me into walls when I least expect it," she complains just for good measure, but she doesn't really mean it and he knows it.

Against her hair, he smirks, "I'll make it up to you, Winston."

For the time being, Elara rolls her eyes and ignores the innuendo in his voice, instead opting to huff, "You'd better."

But neither of them will make good on his words right now. They're technically still in a public place. And while there's no one else in the District 5 terminal, it is always better to be safe, at least until they've got more privacy.

"How'd you know what time my train came in?" she asks him curiously as he grabs the small bag she's brought with her and throws the strap over his shoulder. He spears her with a raised eyebrow and jerks his head at one of the many screens that are positioned all over the building.

"I read the train schedule, what else?" he asks sarcastically, and she pushes him playfully when he tries to throw an arm over her shoulders. He grapples it over her anyway, until of course they reach the end of her terminal and Elara ducks out of his grasp. He doesn't say anything about it. They're supposed to be no more than good friends, after all. Lingering touches should probably be reserved for another time.

Honestly, sometimes Elara wonders how these Capitolite creatures even buy their pretenses. She thinks it's ridiculously obvious that her and Gloss aren't just friends. Would friends meet each other at their train terminals so that they didn't have to wait a moment longer than necessary to see each other again?

Gloss looks at Elara as if he's seconds away from shoving her against the nearest wall and kissing her senseless. She wouldn't necessarily complain if he did, but they don't need that kind of publicity. People are already whispering at the sight of them trudging out of the train station doors, as if the Victors are rare, wild beasts. It's amusing, really, how they nudge each other and nod at them, fingers pointing and voices pitched low in gossiping tones. Elara's grown used to her celebrity status, but being in the center of all this attention isn't something she'll ever appreciate. Before she was Reaped for the Hunger Games, she'd been a nobody back in District 5. These people wouldn't have even given her the time of day before.

"_Look – it's Elara Winston and Gloss Augustine!"_

"_God, he's so handsome. He was on the cover of the last Capitol Weekly, did you see it?"_

"_Of course I did. I drooled over him for hours!"_

"_What I'd give to have a man like that pick me up – he's such a gentleman – "_

Elara coughs back a laugh as they walk past a nearby gaggle of Capitolite women. They're not making much of an effort to keep their voices down. A quick glance at Gloss tells Elara that he can hear them too, and the prideful smirk he's wearing makes her roll her eyes.

"After you," he says graciously, holding the door open for her. Apparently, he's taking his 'gentleman' persona seriously for once. Elara snorts but doesn't argue, and Gloss sends the women a wink as he follows. The squeals that they give out at the sight of it reminds Elara of pigeons squawking for food.

"You're such a shit," she tells him sarcastically. He just smirks wider and hails a taxi for them.

"Just trying to appease my fans," he responds as a cab pulls up to the curb. He opens the door for her again and Elara gives him a wry expression.

She gives the driver her address as he pulls back out onto the road, and they begin their journey through the thick Capitol traffic. It takes about fifteen minutes to get there. They sit in silence most of the way, all too aware of the driver's presence in the front seat. It's only when they've taken the elevator up to her floor and step into the privacy of Elara's apartment that anything changes between them, but when it does change, it changes drastically.

Gloss tosses her bag onto the floor, shuts the door behind them, and has her pressed up against the wall within moments. He wastes very little time in pulling her into a searing kiss. Elara, who had expected this abrupt turn of events, reacts immediately. She throws her arms around him, hikes her legs up his waist, and kisses him back with the fervent desire she's been struggling to contain since their moment in the District 5 terminal. In turn, Gloss grasps her thighs and heaves her up, nestling his body between the crevice of them and holding her firmly against the door as their kiss takes a heavier turn.

"Missed you," he grunts against her mouth, voice muffled as his tongue sweeps over hers. Her only response is a light groan that's meant to portray her agreement, because she isn't sure she has the patience to use actual words.

It's been four months since she's seen him last, and now that he's here…

His scent surrounds her, his skin and his body pressed to hers, their breaths intertwining as clothing begins to disappear, vanishing between long kisses. She hardly knows how they get to her bedroom at all, only that when Gloss drops her down onto the mattress and goes to kick his pants off, Elara is more than ready to welcome him back into her arms.

He enters her swiftly. There's an air of abruptness to their movements. Desperation clings to them. When they move together, they do so with the intent of capturing comfort in the form of release. It's like saying hello, and I missed you, and it's been far too long.

They'll take their time with each other later, when they have plenty of it to spare. For now, Gloss moves them towards their finish quickly, entwining his fingers with hers and stretching them over her head. He dips his mouth to brush over hers but doesn't pull her into a kiss. Their thrusts are too haphazard for slow love making. When he shudders out his climax, it's both far too soon for her liking as well as not soon enough. Another contradiction.

She's still wanting, and so he shifts back and drags his fingers over her, spinning her back into her pleasure so quickly that Elara can only moan and let him sweep her up in it all. She comes hard, panting out his name. She's been waiting for his touch for so long that to finally have it is almost surreal.

Gloss pulls back afterwards, kneeling in the cocoon of her legs as he looks down at her body. There's a lingering softness in his eyes that speaks more clearly than any words he might have conjured in that moment. He looks at her like she's a rare ray of sun that even he couldn't find, back in the desert that he calls his home.

When she impatiently tugs on his arm, he chuckles and lowers himself down, lying beside her. She turns to him and raises her chin, seeking to claim his mouth with hers. He doesn't argue.

"That was quite the greeting," she murmurs into the kiss after a moment, and he smirks.

"Mmm…that was just the 'hello'. There's still the 'how are you' to get to, but I'll let you catch your breath first," he quips, and she laughs. His arm tightens around her, pulling her flush against his body. Their lips brush together again, but for the moment they're just content to smile at one another, refamiliarizing themselves.

She brings a hand to his face, trailing over his jaw as she whispers, "What a gentleman." The joking tone of her voice makes his mouth twitch into another smirk.

His only response to her words is another kiss, which he drags her into by gently biting at her lower lip. He exhales softly and chuckles when she moans, hands sinking over his form as if she can't get enough contact.

Four months is a long time to live with half a heart, after all.


	19. It can't be seen or marked with touch,

**Chapter Nineteen | It can't be seen with eyes or marked with touch,**

"_My only love, sprung from my only hate!_

_Too early seen unknown, and known too late!"_

_1.5, 94-97 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_She loves him. She doesn't know how or when or why it all started. It doesn't make sense to her. All she knows is that she does, which is why she has to end it._

"_I don't understand," Gloss slowly says. His hands fall away from her body, where he had been clutching her waist. When she had called him to see if he wanted to 'hang out' with her tonight, he'd assumed that the night would follow the same pattern as all the others had. He certainly hadn't anticipated Elara telling him that she doesn't want to see him again._

_He studies her closely, eyes honed onto her expression. She's biting her lip. He knows that it's a sign of anxiety. The way she's tapping her fingers against the counter is another one. But the sign he hates the most is that she doesn't look at him directly. Her eyes study the top button on his shirt, but do not raise any higher than that._

_She shrugs halfheartedly, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, and explains, "I just don't think we should do this anymore, that's all. I'm worried that people are starting to catch on."_

_Honestly, that's the least of her worries, but she'd rather not tell Gloss that she's somehow fallen in love with him despite herself. She doesn't think that sort of confession would pan out very well, considering the nature of their relationship. And besides, his words still haunt her mind. The conversation he'd had with Cashmere about her are like heavy weights that she cannot be rid of._

_She doesn't blame him. She knew from the very start that their relationship is purely physical. It doesn't matter that things have changed on her end. Gloss has never been obliged to feel anything more than lust towards her. It's what they had both agreed to. It's what they had both wanted._

_She can't be upset that he doesn't want more than that. She's already resigned herself to her unreturned feelings. She doubts that Gloss could ever love her back, and that's okay. Sometimes, that's how love works._

_It still hurts, but that's okay too. Most things in her life hurt. She's learned to accept the pain of her circumstances. Sometimes she even embraces it._

_Gloss hums, still watching her closely. He knows that there's something she isn't telling him. Her words are too matter-of-fact. He knows her well enough by now to read between the lines. It's just that what actually lingers there, between those lines, is currently eluding him._

"_Okay," he says after a long silence. He doesn't try to argue with her. Elara isn't sure if she's happy about that or not. She tells herself that she is, because it's easier this way, but her heart beats out a truth that her mind refuses to consider at this moment._

_She nods and awkwardly folds her hands into the pockets of her jeans, glancing around her kitchen so that she doesn't have to look at him. She's afraid that if she raises her eyes to his gaze, she might falter. She might forget herself, like she always seems to do around him, and fall right back into his arms._

_Gloss doesn't move, even though he seems to have accepted her words. He stands in the center of the kitchen that he's grown very familiar with. After a moment, he walks over to her fridge and opens the door, casually grabbing a beer as if he's right at home and doesn't intend on leaving. Elara frowns in confusion._

"_I think you're misunderstanding me," she says, and he glances over at her idly, totally unencumbered by the anxiety that seems to have captured her. He sees it clear as day in her eyes when she accidentally looks at him. He knows it's accidental because of the way she immediately darts her gaze away, staring at the countertops as if she's never seen marble before._

_He raises an eyebrow and drawls, "No, I understood you just fine, Winston. You don't want to fuck anymore. I get it." He shrugs and pulls open the drawer that contains the bottle opener. A moment later, he's popping the cap off the beer and taking a sip. She's still staring at him, so he laughs and says, "Just because we're not having sex doesn't mean we can't be friends. You want one?"_

_He gestures to the beer and she slowly shakes her head. This…isn't how she'd anticipated this conversation to go. After all, she hadn't thought that Gloss considered them to be friends at all. He had told Cashmere that she's just a 'good lay' and nothing more. Maybe he was just trying to get his sister off his back. Elara doesn't know what to think. Her thoughts are too tangled to make sense of it all right now._

"_What's wrong?" Gloss asks, putting the beer down on the counter and turning to face her. He crosses his arms. The muscles beneath his skin flex from the movement._

_Elara opens her mouth, then closes it again, pulling her fingers through her hair to buy herself some time. There are a lot of things wrong at this moment. Specifying which one is currently the most important to her is a little difficult._

_When she doesn't respond, Gloss sighs. He stares at her with eyes that are strangely knowing, as if he can see right through the thick boundaries she's built within the last hour to ward him away from the truths that she's bundled up deep inside her heart. Every second that passes them by makes her feels as though those walls are coming down just as quickly as they'd gone up. She feels defenseless and confused. She wants him but she doesn't want him._

"_Look," he starts to say, "You don't have to explain anything. We've kept this relationship casual for a reason, right? We've agreed on keeping our emotions out of it. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy your company though. Victors stick together."_

_She lifts her eyes to stare at him, and finally finds her voice as she slowly agrees, "Yes…that's true. So…I guess we're friends?"_

_She says the word like it's foreign to her. In a way, it is. She doesn't really have friends, not the any normal context. Victors are a rare breed, after all. Friendship just isn't cut out for them. And besides, she's extremely confused as to the sudden revelation that Gloss does indeed see her as more than just an occasional sexual partner. She's somewhat surprised by that._

_He raises an eyebrow at her. "We've been friends for years now. Did you not know that?"_

_The question make Elara laugh a little with genuine amusement. He smiles at the way it lights up her face, dulling down the anxiety that she's been carrying. Together, they stand in her kitchen and chuckle, as if being friends is the most hilarious thing in the world._

"_Friends, then," Elara nods, and walks over to the fridge to finally join him in his drink._

_She can't blame him for this either. Friendship is better than no relationship at all. At least she'll have someone who understands her, and Gloss is taking the news very well, considering that she sort of just rejected his advancements towards her. She supposes that it's all she can ask for._

"_I am curious as to your real reason though," he murmurs as he watches her reach for the bottle opener. They're standing side by side now, both leaning against the counter. His question makes her pause, and Gloss knows that he's right – that the reason she had given him before is only a partial truth. There's more beneath the surface of it. He can be observing when he wants to be._

"_I thought we were having a good time," he slowly adds, watching her closely again, as if he's trying to figure out every expression that passes over her face. Her anxiety comes back, and he frowns._

_She swallows tightly and opens the bottle, depositing the bottle opener back into its elected drawer as she admits, "We do have a good time. I do, anyway." She glances at him and he laughs._

"_We both do," he tells her, like he wants her to know that she's very much capable of bringing him pleasure as well. He's a little surprised when he sees her blush a little bit. He hasn't seen her blush about sex for a long time now, not since the beginning of their atypical relationship. She had blushed a lot during their first encounter. It had been her first-ever encounter, after all, so it a little awkwardness was to be expected. As she gained more experience in the art of sex, Elara Winston had ceased blushing entirely. It's strange to see her cheeks redden now._

"_So…?" he prods, raising an eyebrow at her. He watches the way she fidgets, fingers tapping against the glass of the bottle she's holding. Her anxiety returns at full force, and she doesn't meet his gaze. He barks out a laugh at her actions and shakes his head. "Elara, seriously. We've seen each other naked a hundred times. You know me better than anyone. You can tell me why you want to stop having sex with – "_

"_We agreed to keep our emotions out of it, didn't we?" she cuts in, clutching her beer so tightly that her knuckles blanch white. He stops talking and looks at her strangely, as if he's wondering why she's bringing that up again. He really is an idiot. Elara sighs._

_He's not just an idiot – he's a persistent one. He isn't going to let this go until she gives him a proper reason._

"_Yeah," he says, prompting her out of her silence. He stares at her like she's a strange creature he doesn't understand, and she pierces him with a look that makes him stand a little taller. There's something in her eyes that makes him stall. He thinks he knows what it is._

"…_Are you saying that…you've broken our rule?" he slowly asks her, and puts his beer onto the counter. In the silence of the room, the noise seems to echo._

_Rules – it's almost laughable. Love doesn't have rules, but then again, there is no love between them. There is only love on her side, and Gloss seems to find the realization of its existence to be utterly incomprehensible._

_She purses her lips and mutters, "I think we should stop, Gloss. I…I like you a little too much. I don't know why. You aggravate me most of the time."_

_He doesn't know what to say. She doesn't use the word 'love' at all, but he sees it in her eyes. Suddenly their relationship seems to take on a new meaning. The warmth in her gaze whenever she looks at him, the carefulness of her touch, the almost worshipful quality of their sex…he thinks that perhaps it isn't sex at all. Perhaps she's been making love to him all this time and he hadn't realized it. He's…not sure what to think about that, either._

_Is he happy? Disgusted? His thoughts whirl. He hadn't expected a confession like this. He's not sure anyone's ever confessed to him, come to think of it. He's never been with someone as long as he's been with Elara. He's never gotten close to anyone like he's gotten close to her._

_The terms 'friends' and 'sex partners' suddenly seem far too shallow to describe what it is that lingers between them._

"…_Say something," she whispers, staring at the opposite wall because she can't look at him. She's afraid of what she'll see in his eyes if she does. Afraid of the rejection she knows she's about to experience._

_Gloss swallows, keeping his eyes firmly onto the tiled floor of the kitchen. He's afraid to look at her too. All of the sudden it feels as though they're strangers. Like he doesn't know her at all._

_It's all too much for him to think about right now. Cashmere's words are circling his head. His sister had been right, apparently. Elara Winston feels something more for him than what they had agreed upon, and he'd been completely and utterly blind to it. Cashmere hadn't though. She had seen it clear as day. He feels like a total idiot for missing it._

_Besides feeling like a blind fool, Gloss isn't entirely sure what other emotions are spiraling through him. He usually avoids emotions at all costs, so he has little idea as to what he feels right now. He thinks he should feel upset that the rules they'd laid down have been broken like this, but all he feels is an extreme awkwardness right now. He's out of his depth. He has no idea what to do or say, and he very rarely ever falters in such a manner._

_She deserves a response though. They've been doing this for three years now. He doesn't know how long she's been struggling with whatever these 'feelings' are that she has for him, but they have a history that he can't easily ignore. He just…needs some time to figure out what it is that's barreling through his chest. What inexplicable emotion is it, that's making his breath shallow and his heart pump? He needs to know that before he can give her the answer she deserves, and in order to do that, he needs some time to himself._

"…_I'm leaving for District 1 tomorrow," he slowly says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her deflate a bit. He knows that this isn't what she wants to hear, but he needs some space to work some things out. He turns to her with a sigh. "We'll talk the next time we see each other. I just…you confuse the hell out of me, Winston. I need a little time."_

_She smiles. It's a bit bitter, like she's swallowing something sour. He can't entirely blame her._

"_Yeah. Next time," she parrots back, and he cringes a little but doesn't say anything else._

_Straightening up, he clears his throat awkwardly and mutters, "I'll be back in the Capitol in a few weeks. Will you be here?_

_Elara responds with an equally awkward, "…Yes."_

_He nods and starts walking towards the door, but she calls him back with a sigh. "Gloss. You don't…you don't have to…feel anything for me. I don't expect you to. I know that's not what we agreed on. It's okay."_

_It's not okay, at least not to her own heart, but it's true. They'd agreed on keeping an emotional distance from each other when they first began this affair. Just because she blurred the lines of it all doesn't mean that she expects him to do the same._

_He glances back at her and gives her a little smile that doesn't reach his eyes._

"_Like I said, Elara…I just need to figure out a few things, that's all."_

_She nods slowly, and he calls, "See you in a few weeks," as he heads to the door, walking fast enough to make it obvious that he really wants to get out of her apartment as quickly as possible._

_The moment the door shuts, Elara sighs and stares at the beer bottle he'd left on her countertop. Gloss must have felt truly awkward to leave so much left. He's not the type of leave without finishing his drink._

_She has very little hope that he'll tell her anything she wants to hear the next time they see each other. Very little hope at all._

* * *

"Mmm…stop that…" Elara chuckles, flapping her hand at the solid mass of muscle that is current occupying the bed behind her. Gloss doesn't listen to her, of course. He just keeps stroking her hip idly and occasionally circling his touch over her abdomen. It tickles.

It must be almost midday by now. They've spent the last few days similarly. Luckily, their schedules have both been accommodating in that regard. She's had a few clients so far, but the early mornings have belonged to her and Gloss entirely. Of course, she's the one who's more tired between the two of them. He's gotten more sleep than her, having had less clients and more actual photoshoots.

"I have to get to my interview soon," Gloss mumbles against her neck, tightening his arm around her body. His actions counteract his words; he doesn't want to leave this bed unless he absolutely has to. She feels the same way.

Despite this, she whispers, "I'd rather not have a repeat of that time Cashmere banged down my door looking for you."

They share a laugh at the memory. It hadn't been that long ago, actually. They'd been in the middle of eating breakfast when his sister had made an abrupt and unexpected arrival, bearing down on them for forgetting about the time. The sibling duo had some sort of photoshoot for one of the magazines they're always getting photographed for, and he had completely forgotten in lieu of the quiet morning they were having. With an amused chuckle, he kisses her neck and murmurs, "…Shower?"

Elara turns to give him a wry look. "You really think you'll be on time if we both take a shower together?"

He immediately opens his mouth to argue, but then just smirks and drawls, "True. You wouldn't be able to keep your hands off me."

Elara laughs and elbows him. Gloss catches her elbow before it can reach his stomach and playfully wrestles her down into the mattress. She halfheartedly tries to push him off of her, but her attempts lack any real motivation. His weight on her is heavenly, even if he _is_ a hulking mass of muscle.

"Gloss!" she complains. Her voice is just as halfhearted as her efforts to separate them. Even as the words leave her mouth, she's wrapping her arms around his neck and grappling her limbs around his body, dragging him further against her.

He chuckles, eyes bright as he swoops down to kiss her. They linger there for a long moment as the kiss turns surprisingly soft. In the beginning to their affair, Elara had been surprised at the way he could be so gentle. Now, she adores it. There is just something about a man like Gloss – blunt and brash – kissing her in such a soft manner. It makes her crazy.

"Mmm…I really do need to get ready," he tells her after a few minutes. He lifts his head from hers and sighs, leisurely taking her in. She's pressed beneath him, hair mussed all over the pillow, expression yearning and cheeks subtly flushed from their previous activities. She's got a few love marks strewn over her skin, too – marks that he had put there. He leans down to kiss a few of them, grinning against her when she scoffs and tries to slap him away. Also halfheartedly.

"Alright, alright," he mumbles, still grinning. She gives him a dry look and he smirks, leaning down to give her one last kiss before rolling off of her and sitting up on the edge of the mattress.

She turns to study the brawny shoulders and muscled back and almost pulls him back down. She just barely refrains herself from doing so when she catches sight of the time.

"Oh shit!" she exclaims, jerking up and tumbling out of bed. Gloss raises an eyebrow, mid stretch, as she starts pulling clothes out of her drawer with almost crazed intent. He leans back on the mattress and watches her. His is extremely knowledgeable about her body – he could picture her naked with no effort whatsoever, by now – but that doesn't mean he isn't appreciative of the sight she makes as she stands in all her nude glory in the center of the room.

Once upon a time, she would have blushed at the thought of being so vulnerable in front of him, but that time has long since passed them by. He can't say he minds it, though he does recall finding her to be extremely endearing back then.

"What's wrong?" he asks dryly as she pulls her underwear on with frantic fingers. He's half tempted to tell her to stop – he quite likes the sight of her bare breasts – but he's got a feeling that she'd bite his head off if he tried. The thought amuses him.

Elara casts him a glance as she pulls her closet open and starts riffling through the contents. "I have a meeting with President Snow in half an hour."

He stiffens immediately. With a frown, Gloss stands up and says, "You didn't tell me you were meeting the President. What's it about? Why didn't you mention it – "

"It's probably not a big deal, Gloss," she interrupts, apparently settling on a knee length dress that's just classy enough to get away with a meeting of this caliber. It isn't often that President Snow requests to see his Victors. She's only met with him a handful of times over the past eight years since her Games. Most of the meetings had been involving issues with clients.

Gloss doesn't seem to agree with her nonchalant handling of the situation though. The softness in his eyes has vanished, replaced by a concerned fire that could almost be described as anger. He crosses his arms, totally unconcerned about his current state of dress (or there lack-of), and demands, "Well what does he want to talk to you about?"

She gives him an exasperated look and impatiently says, "I don't know. Probably my clients or something. Gloss, it's really – "

"It is a big deal, Elara," he cuts in, walking over to where she stands with a sigh. He stares at her for a moment before rolling his eyes and helping her get into the dress, which she's trapped herself in because of her frantic movements. As he's buttoning it up for her, he mutters, "It's always a big deal, with him. Why didn't you tell me?"

A part of her feels subtly guilty that she hadn't mentioned it, but really, Gloss can be extremely distracting when he wants to be. And the past few days he had been _very_ distracting.

She brushes her hands over his bare chest and says, "I didn't mean to _not_ tell you. You made me forget."

He raises a flippant eyebrow at her and drawls, "Oh, so now it's my fault?"

With a snicker, Elara leans in to kiss his jaw and murmurs, "You distracted me."

He rolls his eyes. "Seriously?"

Her gaze turns _quite_ serious when she says, "You have a way of making me forget about _everything_ that should be important."

His eyes soften and she knows he's forgiven her when he wraps her up in his arms and drags her against his body, pulling her into an embrace. There's something so powerful about embracing him when she's fully clothed and he's fully naked. She likes it.

"Elara," he grunts, lowering his hands to her hips to stop her from shifting against him. She makes a whining sound against his neck and he huffs, grasping her tightly in case she gets any ideas. In truth, she has quite a few ideas, but unfortunately not enough time to enact any of them.

"See? You're so damn distracting. It's not my fault," she mutters against him, and Gloss laughs.

"As much as I'd like to explore the many ways I might _distract_ you, you should probably get going if you want to be there on time," he tells her, squeezing her rear playfully before stepping away. She gives him another exasperated look and glances mournfully at the bathroom door, wishing she could stay and take that shower with him after all.

He seems to know exactly what she's thinking, and he turns her chin to give her a surprisingly chaste kiss as he murmurs, "See you tonight?"

She hums agreeably against his mouth and pulls away.

"Have fun in the shower without me," she sighs, spearing him with a look that makes shivers race through his body. She can be quite distracting, herself, especially when she looks at him with eyes full of insinuation.

He growls, "I'd much rather wait for you to come back."

She smirks. He playfully pushes her towards the bedroom door, silently prompting her to take her leave.

"See you later," she calls as she obeys. She really does need to be on her way, after all. Being late for a meeting with President Snow isn't exactly high on her to-do list today.

The streets are packed when she steps out onto them, jacket half buttoned and purse hanging loosely from her elbow. As usual, people point and whisper when they see her; a side effect of being a celebrity in a city full of these peculiar creatures. She flags down a taxi as quickly as she can and makes her way to the Presidential Mansion on the other side of the city. With her late start and the morning traffic, she barely makes it on time. She has to hurry through the halls once she arrives, glancing at her watch every other moment in hopes that she doesn't keep the president waiting. Snow might appear to be a patient man, but every Victor knows firsthand that he isn't.

"Ah, Miss Winston," he greets when she's let inside his office. She's been here only a couple of times in the past. Despite being one of his more 'popular' Victors, he doesn't pay as much attention to her as the others. She's grateful for it, though it does make his occasional meetings that much more pressured. She has no idea what he actually wants to speak to her about. He's a hard man to predict, which is probably one of the reasons he's still in power.

"Mr. President," she acknowledges, and takes a seat on one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. She tries not to shift uncomfortably beneath his stare.

He leans back and studies her for a long moment, taking in her semi-polished appearance. He lingers on her face the longest, as if he's trying to figure something out – an elusive concept that he can't quite grasp, or so it seems. He looks serenly frustrated, if that's possible. Something seems to be aggravating him, but he isn't allowing the full extent of his frustration to override his disposition. She isn't sure if that's a good thing or not. One can never be sure, with him.

"…I've called you here for a reason, my dear," he says after a lengthy pause, leaning his head against the chair's back. He taps his fingers against the arm of it as he continues, "I'm sure you're aware, by now, of the implications of the last Hunger Games. We've never had more than one Victor at the same time before. It's…dangerous. I'm sure you understand."

She does understand. What she doesn't understand is why he's telling her all this. She's just Elara Winston from District 5, the district that most people forget about. She isn't important like Gloss and Cashmere or bloodthirsty like Enobaria and Brutus or gorgeously charming like Finnick Odair. She's the second choice. Her clients probably prefer Cashmere over her, and when they can't get a night with the pricier, busier Victor, Elara becomes good enough. She's quite okay with that, but she's always very aware that she isn't as popular as many of the others. She's not sure why Snow is bringing this subject up at all.

"I – yes, I understand, President Snow," she haltingly responds, then falls abruptly silent. Speaking out of turn isn't something she wants to do today, after she's just had an impossibly perfect morning in bed with the man she isn't supposed to be in love with.

The President gives her a cold smile and nods, "You're confused, I see. There's no need to be, Miss Winston. I'm meeting with all of my Victors to ensure that they understand the current situation and what I expect from them moving forward. There's no need to be so stiff. Relax, my dear."

She clears her throat and gives him a slight smile, trying to do as he says. It's just that relaxing in front of the President of Panem isn't exactly an easy feat. This is the man who has made her life into a living hell, who has pushed her into hotel rooms and prostitution and sold her body and her soul to the highest bidder. This is the man who has ruined Cashmere and has crushed Gloss. The man who seems to take pleasure in destroying lives and manipulating his Victors into subordination, at any cost.

She tries to make it seem like she's relaxed, but she isn't sure she succeeds. Luckily, it doesn't appear to matter to Snow, who promptly says, "Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark are all the Capitol has been talking about for the last six months. Their Victory Tour is about to begin, taking them all over Panem. They've become popular with the masses, the common rabble of this country. The districts adore them. Especially the girl."

Elara slowly nods. She shrugs halfheartedly and tells him, "I haven't met Katniss yet. I've heard that she's…difficult."

Snow laughs aloud at this, a bitter sound that would make her cringe, in any other situation. As it is though, Elara is trying very hard to keep her mask on firmly, to not allow her usually expressive eyes to show him any emotions at all, out of fear that he might use them to his advantage as he often does.

"Yes, that's one word to describe her," he agrees after a brief pause. "I've warned her what might happen if she fails to convince Panem that she's in love with Mr. Mellark. Their 'star-crossed love' is the only reason they're both alive. I'm sure you understand how it would undermine me, should they fall out of love."

Elara nods slowly and doesn't respond. Snow stares at her hard with that curious expression on his face again, as if he's trying to figure something out and simply cannot. It's making her distinctly uncomfortable.

"Victors are a rare breed, wouldn't you agree, Miss Winston?" he suddenly says, tilting his head at her. She stiffens a little bit, beneath the scrutiny of his eyes. He smiles coldly at her and says, "They're killers. Murderers. I would even go so far as to say that they're incapable of love entirely."

There's something in the undercurrent of his voice that makes Elara wonder if he's even talking about Katniss and Peeta anymore. It's in the way he's staring at her, studying her closely with eyes that seem far too knowing for her own comfort. She swallows thickly and gives him a stilted smile, trying not to give into the fierce desire to shrink into her chair.

"I…yes, I agree," she responds, because he seems to be waiting for her to say something. It wouldn't do to _disagree_, even though she does. She has a feeling that he wouldn't appreciate her rebuttal.

His cold smile grows. He eyes her with that strange expression and shakes his head. "Do you?" he asks her, and watches in amusement as she pales.

"…President Snow?" she wonders, confused as to what he's really asking. Why had he asked her to meet with him? Surely it isn't to tell her what she already knows. Every Victor knows how careful they all must be now that Katniss and Peeta have upset the careful balance of the system.

The President chuckles again, but this time it is utterly bereft of humor.

"Let's not play games with each other, my dear. I am well aware that you're in love, just as I'm well aware that the man you're in love with is also, shockingly, in love with you."

A pin could drop and Elara would hear it. Her heart crushes in her chest, thudding almost painfully. Her anxiety brackets through her, increasing tenfold. She presses her hands into her lap to keep them from shaking, and straightens her shoulders. It doesn't do any good though – she can see it in the way Snow smiles that cruel smile, as if he can see into her very soul and, subsequently, all the truths that she contains.

"If only Katniss and Peeta were as much in love as you and Mr. Augustine ar," he sighs, and lifts a hand to his chin as he stares at her in contemplative silence.

Elara swallows and doesn't respond. She doesn't think she can. Her words seem to have gotten washed away as if a tide has swept over her. They are dragged off to sea, crested into the deep ocean currents and forgotten.

Snow laughs. "You look surprised, Miss Winston. Did you really think I didn't know about your little affair? I know everything that happens in my city."

Elara looks down at her hands and hoarsely asks him, "Why are you telling me this now, if you've known about it for so long?"

Her President smiles and responds, "Because, Elara, it wasn't necessary to do anything about it before. You've never gotten in my way, and I was content to return the favor. However…what with this new situation regarding our latest Victors, I should warn you that if anyone discovers your true connection to Gloss Augustine, it will be the end for you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She swallows again and nods. Oh, she understands. She most certainly understands.

"Gloss and his sister are our shining stars here in the Capitol. Everyone adores them. I can't have their reputation getting sullied," he tells her, narrowing his eyes just slightly, as if he thinks that a lowly Victor from District 5 would be a stain on their reputation. Elara purses her mouth but doesn't respond. She values her life far too much.

He shrugs and says, "I'm glad we've reached a common ground. As long as you don't complicate anything, I believe we can control this situation. But…if you do…"

Elara abruptly looks up at him, staring into the eyes of the man who has made her life into a hell worse than anything she could have ever dreamed of, eight years before. She gives him a nod and murmurs, "…I understand."

He stares at her for another long moment before nodding as well, seemingly placated. For now.

"Good. That is all, Miss Winston. You may go." He gestures to the door and Elara stands on shaky legs, still blown over at the turn that their conversation had taken.

She gives him another nod and steps towards the door. Snow watches her closely as she leaves, and she tries not to shake as she makes a quick exit.

Of course she had suspected that Snow probably knew there was something happening between her and Gloss. Eight years is a long time to be sneaking around, and secrets always find ways of leaking out. She just hadn't realized that he would know quite so much. That he would realize just how much the two of them care about each other. Love is a beautiful thing, but it has a startlingly potent way of turning frightening the moment the rest of her life gets involved. She only hopes that she can keep the thin balance in place, for as long as she is able to.

What will Gloss say, when he asks her about this meeting later tonight? Because he surely will. He'd been concerned that Snow had wanted to talk to her at all. He knows the system even better than she does. He's been a Victor longer than her and he isn't blind to the way things work around here.

She swallows thickly as she makes her way out of the mansion. She can't get out of it soon enough. Her fears haunt her footsteps. Even when she steps back out into the Capitol streets, they make her quake, roiling beneath her skin like whispering demons.

She knows only one thing: that letting go of Gloss would be a pain that would far surpass any she has experienced thus far, and she has experienced quite a lot of pain in her short life.


	20. Though mortal souls do wildly exert

**Chapter Twenty | Though mortal souls do wildly exert;**

"_Find written in the margent of his eyes,_

_This precious book of love, this unbound lover."_

_1.2, 53-54 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_In all honesty, she doesn't know how they always end up like this. Skin against skin, lips searing paths over each other's body, desperate clawing fingers – fire burns them to dust and it doesn't even matter that they had been an awkward mess only moments before, when Gloss had appeared at her apartment and had swept her up into a brash, beautiful kiss that had left Elara breathless._

_They don't even exchange any words until after they're sated, gasping together on her mattress with the sheets shucked off somewhere at the bottom of the bed and the room full of the scent of their lovemaking. They both sweaty and exhausted. Gloss had been surprisingly patient, dragging her into the high of sex with an almost smoldering slowness, and she hadn't been able to complain in the face of it. She hadn't even been able to ask him what his verdict is._

_The last time she'd seen him, after all, she had unwittingly told him that she likes him far more than she had ever meant to, and he had left her quickly because he needed time to 'think about it'. The words had left a sour taste in her mouth for weeks afterwards, in wake of another absence. She had gone back to District 5 with a heavy heart, convinced that he would want nothing to do with her again. She'd broken his rules and he wasn't the type of man to fall in love, or so she has convinced herself for the better part of three years._

_However – her worries had been completely blown over when Gloss had shown up like he had, unexpected and overpowering in his desire of her. She'd barely been able to greet him before he had her pressed against the door, dragging her shirt up and off of her without even a 'hello'. After that…well. She's surprised they had even made it to bed at all._

_Gloss still hasn't said a single word to her since he's arrived. In truth, it's making her a little fearful. She's used to feeling nervous in this sprawling city, but never around him. His silence is as heavy as the leaden way her heart ricochets through her chest, pounding out the intricacies of her feelings for him, which she is still trying to understand._

_She loves him. She's fallen for him so completely and so silently that she hadn't even realized it, before. She hadn't used that word when she had last spoken to Gloss, but it's clear that he understands that it's what burns through her whenever she's with him. Just now, when he'd been inside her, making her feel things that she never thought she'd ever be able to feel, his eyes had been clear and knowing as he'd taken her. Gloss might be an emotional idiot, but he isn't blind when her love for him is staring at him in the face._

_Still. He hasn't said a single word since showing up at her door. He hasn't even moaned her name like he usually does. His lovemaking had been entirely silent on his part. She'd been the one to sound her pleasure, and he had merely embraced every noise she'd made._

_She turns to look at him. He's lying on his back beside her with his eyes closed. His breathing is deep enough where he could be asleep, but Elara knows better. His expression is tense in a way that tells her he's far from sleeping. He seems to be thinking about something very deeply, and she's loathe to interrupt him. She doesn't want to be the one to break the silence, because what if he's going to tell her that this had been the last time they'd ever be together? That he isn't planning on continuing this strange relationship now that he knows she's got feelings for him that she isn't supposed to have?_

_Instead, she just watches him, her head turned in his direction. She'd like to reach out and touch him, but she doesn't. There's something very delicate in the air between them. A certain subtleness that she feels she needs to skirt around. So she just lays there and takes him in, studying his profile in the dim light of her bedroom while they lay bare together on her mattress, not touching at all._

_The air is thick with unsaid words, but Gloss breaks it when he mutters, "Stop staring at me."_

_He turns his head and opens his eyes to look at her, and Elara's breath gets stuck in her throat. There's something in his gaze that's soft and beautiful and she's a little bit afraid to see it there. After all, she's forced herself to become resigned to the likely event of her feelings not being returned, but the way he's looking at her now – and has looked at her all evening – seems to go against that assumption._

_She doesn't listen to him. She can't stop looking, and her gaze seems to have dragged him into some kind of spell because he can't stop looking at her, either. Together they lay side by side and simply stare, as if they're seeing each other for the first time._

"_I've thought about it," he whispers. His eyes rove over her face, from her eyes to her nose to her lips, which are currently flushed from his kisses. He studies her like she's a painting in a gallery. It's a strange thing, being studied like this. It makes her want to hide indefinitely and boldly unfurl for him at the same time, like a flag on a ship that the wind has claimed. Every beat of its bolstered fabric is a beat of her heart, battering like an uneven drum._

_She doesn't say anything. A part of her is afraid that she is seeing something in his eyes that isn't truly there, as if the emotion that colors his gaze is only a figment of a dream that she yearns for so desperately, it springs to life even in a barren landscape where it should not. She doesn't want to be wrong about what she thinks she sees – what her mind is, perhaps, conjuring – so she just waits._

_She waits with baited breath, because she doesn't know what she wants him to say, either. Gloss is like a summer sky, arid and cloudless, and the only thing that exists in his sky is the bright blinding desert sun. She has been blinded by him before. The sun does not exist without the moon, but she does not know if he would allow her to be such an integral part of his world in such a way._

_Gloss pushes himself onto his elbow to look down at her. His hand threads through her copper hair gently, playing with a strand of it. His silence is both calming and unnerving. She looks up at him through half lidded eyes, and he looks down at her with that strange, mysterious gaze that she just can't place. What emotion burns through those hazel eyes of his?_

_It's killing her, this not-knowing._

"…_You make me nervous," he tells her. Admittedly, it isn't what she's expecting._

_With a confused frown, Elara raises her eyebrows, staring up at him as if she's trying to pull that mysterious emotion into plain sight so that she can study it properly. She can't, of course, and that is the problem._

"_Do I?" she whispers, not sure if he's joking or not. But his eyes are completely serious, solemn in a way they rarely are. Gloss does not mince his words. He doesn't like to talk about his emotions, but when he does talk about something, he does so with far more honesty than she is accustomed to. Something in the atmosphere of his eyes tells her that he is being honest now._

_His fingers lightly caress her cheek, running over her cheekbone and cresting her ear. It is almost as if he's mapping her features. He gently draws his fingertips over her jaw and down her neck. His eyes follow his touch, as if it's easier this way, not looking into her searching gaze._

"_Sometimes you do," he says, voice low and burning with that strange emotion. He swallows. The muscles of his neck shift as he does._

"_When you look at me the way you're looking at me now," he murmurs, sounding so close and yet so far, "it makes me wish we had never gotten involved."_

_It's strange, the way you can feel your heart shake when you think it's breaking. Elara feels it then, shuttering in her chest like a timebomb counting down to detonation. She expected this rejection. She's resigned to it. A part of her even wants it. It would be easier this way._

"…_But then I realized that I would still be that angry, broken man who regretted his entire life up until you came along, who hated everything and everyone because I had absolutely nothing to live for," he finishes, his voice dropping to such a soft pitch that it's barely coherent._

_She stares at him and this time, he doesn't avoid her eyes. Her breath catches once more. She forgets that oxygen is important. She forgets everything except him._

"_Elara…" he murmurs, swallowing thickly. "I don't know what you see in me."_

_His tone is so sorrowful that she almost wants to cry._

_She pushes herself up, pushes him down, and hovers over him in much the same way that he'd been doing moments before. He stares up at her like he's still that broken man, but she thinks quite differently. Gloss is the strongest person she's ever met. His strength astounds her, sometimes._

"_Do you really not know?" she asks, matching his tone. Her voice is quiet, breathy, as if they have an unspoken rule to keep the delicate atmosphere intact. She can follow this rule of his, at least._

_She pushes her fingers into his hair and watches his eyelids flutter at the feeling. She tells him, "I see a man who infuriates me half the time and amazes me the other half, because somehow, everything you do for me is so heartbreakingly perfect. And I have no idea what I've done to deserve it, but I'm so grateful that you think I do, because I've never felt as beautiful or as worthwhile as I do when I'm with you, Gloss."_

_He stares at her in baffled silence, and Elara laughs softly and sits up, wondering if she's just crossed yet another line, broken yet another rule. This thing she feels, brimming up in her chest, is complicated. It's a tangled mess of roots and thorns and blossoms, and she doesn't know if she should let it grow wild or if she should try to cut it down._

"…_I'm sorry," she whispers, pushing the palm of her hand against her eye and turning her head. "I said too much, didn't I? I'll stop."_

_Suddenly he pushes himself up with a short, "Don't – don't stop." He catches her head and turns her to face him. "Don't stop," he whispers again. When she gives him a watery smile, he returns it._

"_Aren't I making you nervous?" she wonders quietly, reaching up to lay one hand over his as it rests on her cheek._

_Gloss chuckles breathily and admits, "Yes." Then he inhales slowly and adds, "But to be honest, I'm starting to think that it isn't nervousness at all."_

_They stare at each other for a long moment, both grappling with his admission as if it's a source of confusion for not only her, but him too. Their foreheads brush together, lips close but parted, breathing in as they sit in their own little world._

"_Did you mean all that?" he whispers, eyes closed._

_She sighs peacefully and responds, "Yes."_

_He exhales and slowly, carefully tells her, "…I went back to District 1 thinking that it would be best to call this off. But when I knocked on your apartment door and saw you again, I…I couldn't do it. I don't want to, Elara. You're the only good thing in my life and…I'm a selfish man."_

_She laughs softly, tearfully, and murmurs, "We're both selfish."_

_He hums, then opens his eyes to look at her with that solemn intent, and whispers, "Will you stay with me? Even though I can't promise you anything – "_

"_I'll stay with you, Gloss," she cuts in, and leans in to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. She lingers there for a moment and adds, "For as long as you want me."_

_He looks at her very seriously, thumb brushing over her cheek. He pulls away a bit and says, "I'll always want you. Haven't you figured that out by now?"_

_She looks somewhat surprised by this and he chuckles, scooping her closer to him and pulling her to his chest as he tells her, "If I could, I might even let you make me an honest man, Winston."_

_Elara grasps at his shoulders as his words sink into her. She pushes her face against his neck and holds him tightly, and he buries his head into her hair and breathes in the scent of her._

"_Maybe one day," she whispers very quietly against his skin. She wonders what that theoretical day might be like, if they both lived in a world where such a thing could exist, where they might be able to be with each other without an entire city breathing down their necks and a president manipulating their every move._

_One day – it is a mantra for them. Both a blessing and a curse wrapped up together, coinciding side by side. It is such a beautiful promise that can never truly be a promise, because they do not belong to themselves. They do not have the freedom to say such things._

_Fate would not give them their day. Not for a very, very long time._

* * *

Elara is in bed when her doorbell rings. She sleepily groans and looks over at the clock, only to see that it is almost two in the morning. With a frown, she lays there and wonders if she's just dreaming the sound…until an impatient knocking thunders through the small apartment and she knows that she isn't.

She gets up with a muffled curse and blindly reaches for the bedroom light, flicking it on and dousing the room with sudden brightness. Cringing slightly, she hastily throws her bathrobe on over her nightshirt and heads into the kitchen. She's not sure if she should be wary about this late night visitor, so she opens the door very slowly in case she has to throw it back into place.

But she doesn't, because the man waiting for her in the hallway is not a wayward client come to stalk her at odd hours.

"Gloss!" she gasps, and throws the door open. The first moment he's able, he crowds towards her form and heaves her against him, shuddering into her body in a way that almost makes Elara think he's crying. She frowns and brings him inside, shutting and locking the door behind her before she can get a better assessment of him. When she lifts his head to study his face, though, she feels stricken.

It isn't just the scratches and cuts that litter his skin, from his face to his arms and probably elsewhere too. It's not just the fact that he's a shivering mess and seems to have lost some sense of himself. The worst of it all is the way he's looking at her, as if he thinks she's about to disappear on him, like she's made out of smoke and ash. His eyes are full of desperation, and the redness around them tells her that he _has_ been crying before he had arrived, though she doubts he would ever admit to it.

She clenches her mouth at the thought of what horrors he has clearly been put through tonight but doesn't say a word. Instead she merely leads him over to the couch and goes to flick on a few more lamps, bathing the room with dim light. All the while, Gloss sits on the couch and doesn't move, his head bowed over his knees. He's still hunched over when Elara returns to his side, kneeling down with a medical kit in one hand and a change of clothes in the other. He's practically got a whole drawer to himself by now, he stays here so often.

When he sees the clothes, he deflates a little. She isn't entirely sure, but she thinks its relief that colors his eyes, as if he had thought that she might turn him away once she was finished with him. The thought makes her pause, knowing that she needs to tread carefully.

"Your shirt," she murmurs, but Gloss just frowns and doesn't make a move to take it off. She sighs. "Gloss…if you've got scratches on your chest too, we need to clean them."

He runs a hand through his hair, glances at her, and sighs. After a moment, he lifts the shirt up and off, and she's shocked to see the state he's in. The glorious skin that she knows so well is marred now by dozens of scratches and small cuts. They're all minor and will heal quickly, but they look like they sting something awful. It seems that no part of him is left untouched, as if whoever he'd been with tonight had made it their personal duty to scratch him into shreds.

Her eyes raise to his, only to realize that he's staring at her with those quietly desperate eyes again. She studies the emotion behind them silently.

"…What happened?" she asks, not sure if he'll actually tell her. Gloss doesn't like talking about this kind of thing to her.

He clenches his jaw and looks away from her, eyes angry now. He looks furious all of the sudden, as if her question has sparked the memories that he's been trying to ignore. Nostrils flaring, he growls, "She looked exactly like you."

And – perhaps it is the way he says it, or maybe it's the fury that tears into his every word, but Elara stares at him in blank shock. Has she heard him right? Did he just say –

"You client…looked like me?" she repeats with a confused frown, and opens the medical kit to start cleaning his cuts.

She doesn't notice the desperate way he looks at her until he purses his lips and hoarsely says, "It was done on purpose. She even asked me if I wanted to fuck 'Elara Winston'. She pretended to be you."

The bottle of iodine she's holding clatters back into the medical box with so much noise that it seems to ricochet through the living room. She turns to stare at him, but Gloss has turned his attention to the table in front of him, staring at the surface as if he's locked away in some dismal memory that she somehow has a role in, despite not being there herself.

She's shocked and disgusted and sad all at once. It's a combination of emotions she's become accustomed to feeling, whenever the Capitol is involved, but she's never felt them so starkly before this moment. To hear that someone has stolen her very identity and used it against him in such a way…she doesn't know what to say in the face of this revelation, so she just sits there on the floor with wide eyes and tousled hair, and the sleepiness she'd been struggling with only moments ago seems to vanish entirely.

"She even dyed her hair," he mutters with a cutting, humorless laugh. "I fucking hate these sick bastards. They ruin every single good thing they can get their fucking hands on."

Elara swallows tightly and carefully edges forward, as if she's approaching a wild animal. An angry Gloss is a tempestuous thing, a creature made of hate and loathing, but she isn't afraid of him and she proves it when she slowly pulls him into her arms. He breathes out like he's been waiting for her touch and buries himself against her, hunching over the couch to grab her tightly and pull her against him.

It's a little awkward, this position, but Elara doesn't complain. It isn't often that Gloss needs her like this. He wears pain like it's an accessory, preferring to laugh it off rather than admit that it shakes him to the core. But tonight is different. Everyone breaks every once in a while, after all.

She doesn't say anything. She just holds him as tightly as he's holding her and lets him shake against her as the adrenaline of his anger washes into something that resembles heartache. His fingers grasp at her bathrobe, wrinkling the fabric like it's made of crushed paper instead of silk, and the way he breaths his pain against her neck tells her that he is far from okay. As if that isn't already obvious.

Perhaps it had been silly for them to assume that what they share is beyond the reach of the Capitol. This city destroys everything in its path, and they are not exempt from that destruction.

It is that wreckage that Elara focuses on most of all, when she whispers, "She hurt you…" She swallows, stroking her hands over his back. Then in a quiet voice, she tells him, "I would never hurt you."

The words make him shudder, and he responds in a hoarse voice, "I know, Elara."

She closes her eyes and breathes out.

Pulling back a bit, he looks down at her and tersely says, "I wanted to kill that woman. I wanted to." He says it like he's wondering if the words will frighten her, that she'll draw herself away from him and leave him to his own devices. Instead, she just narrows her eyes and agrees with him. If he's surprised by this, he doesn't show it. There's only a faint glimmer in his eyes that is quickly doused, and he sighs out too.

"Let me clean these cuts," Elara says after a moment, and reaches for the iodine again. Her jaw is clenched as she pushes him back enough to see the full extent of the cuts. Like him, she's feeling a similar fury at the thought of some random woman pretending to be her and then hurting him like this. It's sick. It makes her want to scream.

Gloss must notice the emotion in her eyes, because he chuckles humorlessly and tells her, "I like when you're all protective. It's sexy."

She rolls her eyes at him and starts wiping a bit of cotton over his scratches. _"Someone_ needs to look out for you."

This time, the smile he sends her is a little more genuine.

"I guess if anyone should look after me, it should be you," he murmurs after a moment, then winces a bit when she starts cleaning a deeper cut on his abdomen. His muscles clench at the pain and she gives him an apologetic look that he ignores in favor of muttering, "You've got the credentials for it."

Elara laughs at this. It's a stilted sound that's full of heartache at seeing him like this, but it's a laugh nonetheless.

"Credentials? Is that what we're calling it now?" she asks wryly, quipping an amused smile his way as she puts down the cotton swab and turns her attention to the button of his pants. She starts undoing it with an obviously clinical intent, but Gloss naturally has to take things a step further.

In a suave voice, he murmurs, "Why Winston, how brazen of you."

She huffs and swats his leg as she unzips the pants, then gestures for him to stand so that he can kick them off. When they're on the floor, the lighthearted atmosphere that they'd managed to cultivate dissipates like a breeze, and she stares at the many scratches that literally cover his entire body.

"I'd like to kill that woman too," she says tightly, jaw clenched, and Gloss looks at her with an almost soft expression. "Sit down," she tells him, and goes to kneel between his legs so that she can tend to the scratches that blister like angry red marks over his thighs.

Gloss leans over her and threads his fingers through her hair as she does. He watches her intently, studying the curve of her face. In a low voice, he quips, "I do like the sight of you kneeling in front of me."

Elara sends him a dry look full of exasperation and he smirks.

"Be quiet," is all she says, but of course Gloss doesn't listen. He rarely ever does.

With a chuckle, he drawls, "I'd prefer it if you were wearing less clothes, of course, but – ow, Elara, that hurts!" He winces as she goes to clean a particularly nasty looking cut and pushes himself back against the couch, recoiling from the pain.

She sends him an apologetic look and sighs, "I'm almost done." The words immediately make his eyes blaze with amusement, and she huffs, "You're incorrigible. Stop thinking dirty thoughts."

The order only makes him chuckle again. "I'm not sure that's possible when you're nearly face to face with my – ow, Christ! Would you be careful?"

This time, the look she sends him is a little less apologetic.

It takes her only a few more minutes to clean the last of the deeper cuts. She bandages a few of them, but there's little to be done about the scratches. Those are shallow enough to heal on their own, so she leaves them be and starts gathering up the medical supplies. As she does, Gloss pulls on the clothes she'd retrieved for him. He forgoes the shirt entirely and just pulls on the sweatpants before stepping towards her liquor cabinet. She doesn't question him or his late night drink. After the recent events, she'd much prefer joining him.

Gloss happens to be rather masterful when it comes to mixing the perfect blend of alcohol and whatever else she's got on hand. She rather enjoys what he comes up with. She can never seem to replicate his spontaneous recipes even when she tries, but this time it seems that he isn't in the mood to be creative. He pours them both a glass of brandy, straight, and sits back down on the couch with it cradled in his hand. Once she puts the medical kit away, she joins him and he passes her the glass he'd poured for her.

"What a pair we make," she says with a bitter smile, and clinks her glass against his as she settles carefully against his body. She doesn't want to upset the cuts that span all over him, but Gloss just heaves her closer regardless. He winces just a little as her weight falls against some of said cuts but ignores the slight sting of them in favor of her.

He turns his head into her hair and hums, "I'm sorry I woke you up. You don't get enough sleep."

Elara laughs softly and replies, "No thanks to you."

He smiles lightly, but his eyes flicker with a peculiar darkness that only Victors possess, hewn from endless days of manipulation and anguish. Neither of them makes mention of the other reason she never sleeps. The topic of their clients has grown stale and far too vulgar for the delicate spaces between them right now.

"You know you can come to me whenever you need me," she tells him, turning her face into his shoulders and inhaling the scent of him. He smells like iodine and iron. It's strong enough to counteract the lingering scent of sex that shrouds his person, for which she is grateful.

He doesn't respond, just presses a kiss to her temple and takes a sip of brandy. It's the expensive stuff, and even though it's undiluted, it's smooth. She only has it because of him. She doesn't usually drink hard liquor herself, unless she has a particularly terrible night and he isn't there to lend her some comfort. Liquid comfort isn't nearly as potent as what he offers, but sometimes she has to settle.

"…You never told me what Snow wanted to talk to you about," he says after a long silence. The words make her tense a little, which he immediately notices. It's hard not to, when she's strewn against him like she is.

She considers making something up. Gloss has enough to worry about without being concerned on her account. Except that this isn't just her problem – it's something that impacts them both. And besides, she doesn't want to lie to him. It wouldn't feel right to do so now.

Elara looks up at him. He catches her eyes and his own gaze narrows with concern. With a sigh, she murmurs, "He knows about us. Which isn't really that surprising, I guess, seeing as this is his city."

The information makes his eyes narrow even more as they fill with worry. He sits up and turns to face her, clutching his glass in his hand. His voice is strained when he says, "We're discrete enough to fool the entire Capitol into thinking we're just really good friends."

Elara purses her lips and points out, "Yes, but Snow is a little more observant than the rest of his people."

His jaw clenches. He seems to agree with her, because he doesn't argue. Instead he asks, "What did he say to you?"

Her response is carefully worded. She doesn't like to see him so worried. It shatters the illusion of the protection that he offers her, which in the light of day is really not very strong. He can't truly protect her from the whims of the Capitol, as much as he'd like to.

"He spoke a lot about Katniss and Peeta. And he told me that…I should be careful not to sully your image." She laughs at this, even though it's fairly obvious that she doesn't really find it amusing. Gloss certainly doesn't.

"Sully my image?" he repeats, eyes hardening into slits. She places a hand on his arm in hopes of calming him down, but his anger seems to be growing with every breath he takes. He shakes her off and stands up, leaving her cold and lonesome on the couch as he starts pacing. She sits back and purses her lips. She's been in the center of his anger before. It isn't usually directed at her, but she's seen it plenty of times regardless. When he's angry, Gloss can be a formidable force, and only when he can get a handle on himself does he ever truly calm down.

If she had known her words would have this effect on him, she wouldn't have said them at all.

"_Sully my image?!"_ he hisses, and barks out a laugh before suddenly throwing his brandy at the wall. She flinches a little as the glass immediately shatters and the brandy leaves a wet trail down the paint, pooling on the carpet below. Gloss doesn't even seem to notice. He's too busy sneering, "What, like I'm some kind of fucking dog?"

Elara swallows and sits back, rubbing her forehead. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, unafraid but also unwilling to say something that might turn his anger towards her. She's far too tired for this right now. At least Gloss seems content to have his tirade without dragging her into it.

Until, of course, he turns to her and firmly growls, "You would never sully my image – you know that, don't you? You're the only good thing I've got in my life."

His words are slightly calmer, and she gives him a shaky smile. "You're the only good thing I have, too," she tells him quietly, looking into his eyes from her perch on the couch. The words drain his anger away just as quickly as it had come, and Gloss collapses beside her again and pulls her into his lap, all but heaving her body against his without a word or warning.

She doesn't need one anyway, and just buries her face against his neck with a heavy sigh. He grasps her tightly and pulls her as close as he possibly can. Together they sit there, stewing in anger and pain and all manners of dark things, trying to figure out where the heartache begins and where it turns into love. It isn't so easy, when their lives as so complicated.

"Is he ordering us to stop seeing each other?" he very quietly asks her, as if he's afraid of what her response will be.

But she just whispers, "No. I mean, he didn't say that specifically. He just told me to not get in the way. To not complicate anything."

At this, he chuckles. It's a sound filled with anguish and strained relief – so much relief that he can barely breathe around it. Against her cheek, he replies, "You complicate everything you touch, Winston."

And, maybe it's just the atmosphere of the room and the desperate way their hearts beat in tempo, like two notes spinning together into their own private symphony, but – Elara suspects that the complications he's speaking of now are not ones that he minds terribly. After all, he did say that she's the only good thing in his life, so that's something.

That's something.


	21. Its depth is too short, and yet too much

**Chapter Twenty One | Its depth is far too short, and yet too much**

"_Be ruled by me; forget to think of her._

_O, teach me how I should forget to think!"_

_1.1, 189-193 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_He's confused, and he hates it. Gloss doesn't do complications. He's too straightforward for that. He doesn't let his life get swept up in the extraordinary. It's already messed up as it is without adding any additional drama to it, so then why does it feel like he's missing something important where it concerns the latest addition to his life? An addition that, by all rights, should be as uncomplicated as every other aspect of his story?_

_It was supposed to be sex. No strings. For a while, it was exactly that. But then, somewhere, somehow, it became more._

_It isn't just sex. It's a deeply concerning existential crisis that involves talking about the profound complexities of their lives. It's feeling like he has a place in someone that understands him in ways he cannot wrap his head around. It's belonging to another soul in a manner that he never thought was possible._

_It isn't just sex. It's more than that, and that's extremely scary._

"_Hey, it's your turn to go to the grocery store," Cashmere calls as she pokes her head out of the front door. She looks over at him, only to see that he's staring off into space as he sits on one of the chairs on their front porch. She turns her head to see what he's looking at, but there isn't anything interesting to see besides the small crop of manmade grass at the center of the Victor's Village and the marble wall that surrounds it. It's a cage around nature that isn't truly nature, because grass does not truly belong in the arid desert, and neither does he._

_What a strange thought. Of course he belongs in the desert. He was born beneath this sun, surrounded by the sands that stretch far beyond the realm of District 1. His body has grown accustomed to the harsh beat of the wind when it pushes the sand into the air and tunnels it down the streets. His skin has grown used to the feeling of this dry air and the hot rays that turn him tan and highlight his hair._

_But suddenly he wonders if his heart is here, in this moment, in this place. Is it still buried beneath the sand, where he had left it when their parents were murdered and Cashmere won her Games and he foolishly volunteered too, because he wanted to follow her? Or is it swept up in the rainstorm of another heart that beats a thousand miles away in a place he cannot go?_

_Now that is a tragically frightful thought, if there ever was one._

"_Did you hear me?" Cashmere asks with a frown, staring at her brother who stares off at the grassy outcrop that shouldn't exist because it doesn't belong here, yet there it is, existing._

_What has happened to him? He feels changed. He wants to blame her for it, but Elara Winston isn't really at fault. He can only blame himself for being as stupid as he was, when he had allowed himself to fall into her arms time and time again and assume that he would be able to keep himself above the whims of human nature._

_Humans – they are such fickle things, allowing themselves to be tossed around by their own souls. They lay traps for their virtues, and when they fall into them, they weep with self-pity. But they never learn, not really. They just keep setting traps, and keep falling into them, and the cycle goes on and on and on. An eternity could go by and nothing would change. They are fickle things, made from sinew and soul, and they delight in their own torment like sadistic beasts who cannot help themselves. The torturous burn of humanity is too tempting to pass over._

_What has happened to him? He thinks he knows, but he dares not fall into that particular trap, lest he never be free of it._

_It is an overgrown path that he is too afraid to venture down. It is a shrouded thing, a dark place, meant for the brave and courageous. He's never claimed to be either._

_Cashmere impatiently sneers, "Snap out of it, Gloss, for fuck's sake – you're mooning over her, aren't you?"_

_He does snap out of it, then, because he is not _mooning_ over her. He does not moon over _Elara Winston_. He does not._

"_Shut the fuck up," he mutters, but there's no bite to his words. Maybe that's because somewhere inside he knows that his sister is a just a little more correct than he wants to admit_

_She scoffs, voice tattered with scorn, and questions, "I thought you were going to break it off. You told me you were going to – "_

"_I said shut up, Cashmere," he growls, and hunches forward, elbows on his knees. He stares at the stone steps that shift from porch to ground and glowers at them, squinting in the sun that pools on the deck._

_Cashmere doesn't shut up, of course. She rarely ever does. He should be used to that by now._

_She steps out onto the porch and slams the door shut behind her with blazing eyes. "You fell into bed with her again like a fucking idiot, didn't you? Just can't get enough of Elara Winston, can you? Do you like the danger of it all? Is that why you can't say no to her?"_

_Gritting his teeth, Gloss grinds out, "Cashmere, this is not a good time. Do not piss me off."_

_He's already spun out, thoughts a whirlwind of confusing complexities that have no beginning and no end – they just keep spiraling, picking up speed and strength like a dust storm in the desert, and he can't stop it or control it. All he can do is let it blow out._

_He's angry. He's angry at himself and he's angry at Elara for being so goddamned perfect and saying such fucking perfect things to him and making him forget himself in that infernally perfect way she somehow does, as if she just knows exactly what he needs without even having to ask. He's angry that she can read him so well and he's angry that he isn't as mysterious as he'd thought. He's angry that he isn't impervious to her charms and that he can't seem to keep his walls intact around her. And even when he does, he's angry that he lets her break them down with just a flash of her smile and a few barbed quips._

_He's already so fucking crazy about her that his defenses are utterly useless whenever she tosses her haphazard smiles his way. He's crazy about the way she looks wrapped up in sheets and nothing else, with the sun beaming intricacies into her skin and her eyes glowing with the morning sun. He's crazy about the ratty t-shirts she likes to wear to bed because they're comfortable, and that she doesn't care if they're sexy or not because she somehow manages to look irresistible in them anyway. He's crazy about the way she kisses him after a long absence, when she cups his face in her hands and slowly drags her mouth over his as if she's saying 'hello' and a thousand other things that he can only marvel at, because he doesn't know how a kiss can transcend so many inconceivable things but it does._

_Cashmere breaks into the whirlwind of his thoughts and adds to it when she snarls, "She's wrong for you, Gloss! She's District 5, from a different world! She gets handed around the Capitol to men who just want the thrill of fucking a Victor. She'll never belong to you and you fucking know it – "_

_He stands up so quickly that the chair he's sitting in tumbles backwards and crashes into the deck with a bang, but the sound isn't nearly as powerful as his voice is when he thoughtlessly shouts, "I LOVE HER, CASHMERE!"_

_And – the sound that follows immediately after his shout is also incomparable. Total and complete silence often is._

_Cashmere stares at him like he's insane, and Gloss thinks that he definitely is. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't even realized the full extent of this whirlwind that's been pestering him for days now, ever since he returned from the Capitol and from her arms, yet again. He's just as shocked as his sister, who is staring at him with wide eyes like she thinks he's turned into a timebomb and is about to explode._

"_You…what?" she splutters, utterly baffled, wondering if she had heard him right. It would be impossible not to though. His words seem to echo in the spaces between them even now, casting shadows through the breeze._

_He heaves there on the porch like a wild animal in the path of danger, chest rising and falling, nostrils flaring, fists clenching. Perhaps it is an apt description, for it certainly coincides with the feelings that have gained weight inside his chest and are at this very moment dragging him down. Love is a wild thing, untampered, senseless._

_He doesn't respond to Cashmere. Instead he just turns and throws himself from the porch, walking quickly away from the house before he can fall completely into the trap he hadn't even known he'd set. But it's too late. God, it's too late. He's already fallen, and he has no idea how or why or when but suddenly he realizes that he's turned into the very same fickle creature that he's always loathed. And suddenly it doesn't even matter that this path is shrouded and dark, because he's already on it and he can't turn back. _

_He's been on it for far too long to turn back now, only he hadn't known._

_But this overgrown path has already gotten a hold of him, this trap that he stumbled into like a hapless fool. The weeds cling to his legs, growing up his arms and taking root in his chest. He can't pull out the kernel that has been planted within him. He can't stop the feelings that blossom from his heart._

_He loves her? Does he? No. He can't love Elara Winston. That hadn't been a part of his plan. He vowed long ago that he would never fall in love. He had blocked that overgrown path with cinder and cement so that he would never fall prey to the alluring call of it._

_He is not in love with Elara Winston. It had been a slip of the tongue – thoughtless, ridiculous, stupid._

_Yet, if that's true, then why does he feel like this place he was born in is not his home? Why does he feel that his home is far away from him, shuddered with fog and rain and wind, errantly sparking with lightning bolts that sear him into dust?_

_Why does he feel lost here, in a place he knows like the back of his hand? And, more importantly, why does he feel found when he is within the confines of her arms? She is yet another trap that he falls into, like a cycle that goes on and on and is not stricken by the vastness of eternity._

_He stops, kicks at the fake grass at the center of the Victor's Village, and rubs at his chest. What has happened to him?_

_It is love._

* * *

"Well don't you look nice," Finnick drawls, sidling up to Elara where she stands off to the side of the large crowd. All around them, people are crowding forward to catch a glimpse of the newest Victors, who is being escorted around the room by Effie Trinket. Haymitch is supposed to be with them too, but Elara suspects he's long since joined the others at the bar.

Elara gives Finnick a sidelong glance and raises her eyebrows at him. He mirrors her expression over his champagne glass, and she shakes her head. "You know, I think you might get prettier every time I see you, Finn."

He laughs loudly at this and gives her a saucy wink. His voice is flirtatious when he purrs, "Right back at you, darling. Wanna dance? I'm bored as hell, and I've got a horde of clients following my every move."

She wrinkles her nose and mutters, "That doesn't exactly make me want to dance with you."

Finnick just chuckles and puts his champagne glass down on a nearby tray. He turns to her and whines, "Come on, Elara. You're the only person who can handle me."

She gives him a dry look and his mouth twitches, giving away the innuendo of his voice and making her roll her eyes. As if she would ever want to _handle_ Finnick Odair, no matter how pretty he happens to be. He laughs again, amused at their games, and holds out his hand for her. She just sighs and takes it, letting him lead her out onto the dance floor.

This year's Victory Tour Gala is beyond incredible. The Capitol hadn't pulled expenses for their star-crossed lovers, and it shows. Besides the gourmet food platters and large selection of drinks, there are probably ten times more people at this gala than there had been at last year's. Everybody wants a piece of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark.

"This is pretty amazing, right?" Finnick asks as he pulls her into an upbeat song and spins her around. "I mean, I don't think _I _had this big of a crowd, and people practically worship the ground I walk on."

Elara chuckles and snarks, "Speaking of your incredible fame, I think I see some women over there who look like they want to murder me."

Finnick cuts a quick glance to where she's looking. When he turns back to her, there's a peculiar smile on his face that Elara recognizes as the smile he often wears to mask his own pain. He lightheartedly quips, "That's what you get for dancing with me, Elara."

She sighs and glumly tells him, "I've seen quite a few of my clients around, too. You're not the only one."

The information doesn't appear to surprise him. Finnick gives her a quiet smile and squeezes her waist, silently pressing comfort into her. As the song morphs into something slower, Finnick pulls her closer and wonders, "D'you think Gloss will punch me if I slow dance with you?"

Elara can't help the laughter that rises into existence at his half-serious question. She pulls back to snicker at him, and Finnick grins. Then Elara pauses and tells him, "He might, yeah."

Finnick winces as if he's already been punched, and she laughs again. This time it's her that pulls him back in. Gloss knows that she's good friends with Finnick and that Finnick doesn't feel anything else for her. He might not appreciate the sight of them on the dance floor, but she's having fun for once, and she never has fun at these parties. Finnick does have a way of making even the most boring scenario seem scintillating.

Besides, the last time she'd seen Gloss, he was surrounded by a gaggle of Capitol women who were absolutely fawning over his every move. Not that she's jealous – she knows that he loves her, even if she's never actually heard the words pass from his lips. It's just that she wishes she could go up to him and claim him as her own in public, without fear of the consequences.

She knows she can't, though, she instead she just lets Finnick pull her around the dance floor, laughing at his jokes and the quiet way he makes fun of as many Capitolite ladies as he possibly can.

"Do you think those sequins are body modifications, or just glued on?" he wonders, eyeing a woman who has bright pink sequins over the top of her shoulders, trailing down as if they're the scales of some tropical lizard. Elara snorts out a laugh as he expertly twists her so that she can get a look.

"If they're glued on, it must've taken her hours," she replies, then says, "Do you want a drink? I'm getting tired of this loud music."

He agrees, though not without an amused, "Ooh, a proposition from Elara Winston. I can't refuse that." She shoves him playfully for good measure and he laughs, "I'll go get us something from the bar. Hopefully Gloss won't murder me for touching you in the meantime."

Elara smirks wryly at him and says, "I doubt he's even noticed. He's a little preoccupied."

Finnick's response is a roll of his eyes and an exasperated, "Please. He notices everything you do. He's like a bloodhound." He grumbles something about Gloss being a lovesick idiot as he makes his leave, and Elara chuckles to herself as she watches him go.

She idles at the edge of the dance floor for a while, trying to not get roped up into any conversations by stray Capitolites. She's glad she doesn't have the same fame that Finnick or Gloss has. Cashmere, too, has been surrounded by men the whole night. It's a small relief that Elara can be here without being forced to get in the middle of anything.

Until, unfortunately, her sliver of peace falls away quite abruptly.

"Elara Winston," a voice sounds to her left, and she looks over to see a familiar face. It's a Capitolite man who has bought her several times in the past. She stiffens at the sight of him, but he doesn't seem to notice as he edges over to her side and throws an arm around her shoulders. "You look ravishing tonight. I don't suppose you're free after the party? We could go to my place for a drink. It would be…quieter."

It would also be much more than a 'drink'. Elara swallows around the clawing sensation that's making its way up her throat, and tries to move away from him. But his arm is like a vice around her shoulders and she doesn't manage to get more than a few inches away before he pulls her back again, looking all the more amused for her reluctance.

These people just don't know when they're not wanted. Then again, it isn't as if she has any control over who she wants.

"I already have plans," she tells him as smoothly as she's able to. She manages to get a handle on that clawing emotion that threatens to keel her over, and is proud that it doesn't leak out into her voice. She tries to edge away again, only for the man to scoff and hook his arm around her waist, more solidly capturing her.

"Don't be like that," he chides. "You should feel lucky that I've paid so much attention to you. Not that you aren't gorgeous of course, but your sex could be improved a bit." She turns to gape at him and he smirks cruelly. "I'm just saying, you're like a cold fish in bed. No passion whatsoever. Now Cashmere – she's great. She's got this dominatrix thing that she does – "

"Well why don't you go bother her," Elara snaps, and the man laughs heartily, as if she's just told him a hilarious joke.

Fingers clenching down around her waist, he leans into her cheek and murmurs against her skin, "I haven't had you for a few months now. I'm thinking that I could teach you a few new moves. Give you some pointers, you know?" He smirks vividly, amused at his own words, and pulls her backwards towards the door before she can even form a reply.

He's a tall man, muscled and towering, and he's been rough with her on a number of occasions. It isn't very shocked that he manages to force her outside. She's a head shorter than him and far weaker, and when he drags her away from the party and pushes her against a wall several hallways away, she can't do anything to stop him. That doesn't mean she can't complain of course.

"Get the fuck off of me!" she snarls, batting away his hands as he grasps her waist. "You know this isn't how it works – "

"Oh shut up, you little slut," he sneers back at her, and grinds his hips against her thigh. She struggles to push him off, but he only grabs her wrists and shoves them against the wall above her head, reaching forward to cup her breast over the silky fabric of her gown. He gives her a rough squeeze that hurts her, and she tries to spear his foot with the heel of her stiletto. It doesn't work. In fact, it only seems to frustrate him even more.

"You think anyone will care that I haven't technically paid for your services? You should be grateful that someone actually wants to fuck you without having to pay for you," he growls, and slips his hand beneath her dress to cup her sex.

She grits her teeth, glaring fiercely as she clenches her legs together, trying to inhibit his movements. He's in the middle of trying to wrestle her thighs apart when suddenly a hand comes down on his shoulder and tears him off of her with one strong pull. Before Elara even knows what's going on, the man is falling clumsily to the floor and clutching his nose, which is bleeding from a punch that had been administered by her resident hero.

"Gloss – " she starts, trying to catch his arm and pull him away from the man. Getting into a fight at the Victory Tour Gala is not a good idea, but Gloss is far to pissed off to let her have her way.

He shrugs her hand off and reaches down to grab the man by the front of his shirt, heaving him off the ground with a snarling growl that looks extremely dangerous on his face. His eyes are slits that burn with fury. When his anger is unleashed as it is now, Gloss can be downright terrifying to behold.

"What the fuck is this, huh?" the man sneers, tearing himself out of Gloss's hold. "Just walk away if you know what's good for you. You've got no business getting in the middle of this."

Admittedly, this isn't the right set of words to say to a furious Gloss who has just witnessed the woman he happens to be in love with get molested by a disgusting Capitol man.

He lurches forward and pushes the man into the wall with a forceful shove, and the man retaliates by ducking out of the way of his oncoming punch and throwing his fist into Gloss's abdomen. Gloss falters for only a moment before coming forward again, only for the man to throw a punch into Gloss's face. Unlike most of his brethren, this Capitolite client seems to know his way around fist fights. His head turns from the punch, face bloodied by the ring on the man's finger, and Elara shoots to his side and doesn't let him shove her off this time.

The man sneers. "You've both got a lot of nerve. I'm not going to let this go. You'll be hearing from me very soon, you little slut," he spits at Elara, straightens his jacket, and steps away with one last scowl sent at Gloss. And Gloss, who physically bristles at the man's words, steps forward threateningly – only for Elara to forcefully grab onto his arm and drag him back.

"Stop it," she hisses at him, and he turns to glare at her with those furious eyes.

"He was going to fucking rape you," he growls, but she doesn't respond, just frowns and lifts her hand to touch the bleeding bruise that's spreading over his cheekbone. He cringes at the touch and grabs her hand, pulling it away from his face.

"It doesn't matter," she mutters, dragging him down the hallway. He clenches his hand in hers and glares at her again.

"It doesn't matter?" he repeats incredulously, voice shuddering with anger. "Are you fucking kidding me – "

"Gloss for once in your life, shut up," she snaps at him, and pulls him towards the doors quickly, trying to get them outside as fast as possible and preferably without anyone noticing. She hails a taxi and nearly shoves him into it.

"I can't believe you're okay with the idea of being – "

"I'm not okay with it," she growls, as annoyed as he is. "I'm frustrated that you got involved. Remember what Snow said? No complications. Well you've just complicated things, Gloss."

He scowls out the window of the taxi and mutters angrily, "Well _I'm sorry_ that I care enough about you to save your ass from disgusting, prowling Capitol men."

She purses her lips and crisply responds, "I don't need you to save me from Capitol men, Gloss. You couldn't even if you tried."

His scowl only gets deeper at this. They fall into a terse silence that is broken only by the sound of the car as it dives in and out of late night Capitol traffic. They don't look at each other or say another word even as they arrive at Gloss's apartment complex and enter the building. The trip up the elevator is just as silent as the trip in the car. It's only when they walk into Gloss's apartment that the silence is shattered.

"You don't have to stay," Gloss mutters, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off. He lets it drop right there on the kitchen tiles as he heads to his bedroom, wrangling the rest of his clothes off on the way. He needs a shower. He doesn't expect Elara to follow him, but she does.

Annoyed, he cuts a glance at her. "Just go back to your place. I don't want you here tonight."

Elara glares at him, and stubbornly unzips her dress. His eyes darken, but it isn't with lust. He scoffs and walks into the bathroom without giving her a second glance, and she rolls her eyes.

"For the record, I'm not trying to seduce you," she tells him briskly, following him yet again. He turns the shower on and ignores her, but watches out of the corner of his eye as she riffles through his cabinet and to grab some ointment and a bandage.

With a glower, he mutters, "Could've fooled me," and gets into the shower without another word. He doesn't argue, though, when she joins him. Instead he just impatiently sighs and tells her, "I don't need you to take care of me, Elara. I'm a grown man."

She just sneers at him, "We're both adults. We don't need to have a reason to want to take care of each other."

Right now she isn't sure why she loves him at all. He's an obstinate idiot half the time and sometimes, he treats her like she's made out of glass. It doesn't usually bother her, but tonight they're both stressed and annoyed.

He takes the soap and starts lathering himself up, muttering, "You're such so fucking stubborn sometimes."

She hums in dry agreement and snarks, "Right back at you," then steps forward and grabs the soap from him, continuing where he'd left off. Gloss just tips his head back and sighs as if he thinks she's the most difficult creature on the planet.

The atmosphere between them curdles like the steam and the hot water. All Gloss can think about is where she might be right now if he hadn't stepped in. How she'd be underneath some disgusting stranger whose only intention towards her is to take advantage of everything she is. All he can think about is how she belongs to _him,_ not to anyone else.

Conversely, all Elara can think about is why she's in the shower with him, completely bare, and not doing anything about it.

She steps closer and kisses his jaw. He tenses but doesn't move away, hands flexing at his sides as he feels her touch spiral over his body, soapy fingers tracing patterns against his chest and downward. It's a strange feeling, this straining tension that creases the barriers between them. Gloss can only stand there when she slides her fingers around his cock and pumps him into her hand. He hardens against her, but the rest of his mind is still spinning with frustration.

"I thought you said you weren't gonna seduce me," he grumbles to her, then catches his breath when he feels her sink her teeth rather roughly against his neck. His hands fly to her waist. He can't help it, despite his annoyance.

She has a power over him that no one else does. Sometimes it frightens him, sometimes it amazes him. This time, it perturbs him.

"Elara, for fuck's sake," he mutters, grabbing her hand and wrenching it off of him. She opens her mouth to snap at him, but he shuts her up by dragging her head back and giving her a very thorough kiss, all angry teeth and bites and nips that travel from her mouth to her neck to her collar as he towers over her and presses her into the wall.

"You piss me off so much," he tells her, nipping at her breast and shoving a finger inside her. She's not quite prepared for the move, but it doesn't stop her from gasping and clenching down on his shoulders with tight, clawing fingers.

With a grumble, she responds, "Yeah? Well so do you."

He growls and abruptly reaches over to turn the shower off, nearly tearing the curtain open and herding her out of it. He grabs her, lifts her up, and carries her over to the bed without warning. Elara lands roughly on the mattress, only for him to drag her to the very edge of it and immediately thrust his head between her legs, dragging his tongue over her clit with such immediacy that Elara can only arch into him with a surprised moan and grasp the sheets. They both drenched from the shower, skin glistening with water, but neither of them cares. They far too busy pretending that their love is hate to care.

And pretend they do. Gloss isn't gentle with her, and Elara is strangely addicted to it. They wrangle with each other on the mattress like starved beasts, biting and clawing as he enters her, grasping each other so tightly that they leave bruises in their wake. He thrusts into her hard and fast, growling at her when he grabs her wrists and shoves them over her head. Her body goes taut beneath his, legs tangled around his waist, moaning and gasping as he fucks her into the bed with aggravated intent. And when he climaxes with an animalistic growl, Elara pushes upward and rolls him over, clawing her way to her own end as he braces his body beneath hers.

When it's all over, they lay side by side, silently gasping. The clock shudders through the silence.

"You belong to me," he tells her after a while, arms beneath his head as he stares up at the ceiling and just breathes.

And she just tells him, "I belong to you in every way that matters."

He laughs. It's a bitter sound. They both know that they don't really belong to each other, not truly. Their bodies belong to the Capitol, their souls belong to the Games, and their hearts…

Well, sometimes, they wonder if they even have hearts anymore, or if they're just puppets being forced to act out a play in which the script always changes, eternally circling like deep waves in an ocean that they cannot cross.

"Come here," he murmurs, because at least here, in this room, he can pretend.

And – she goes.


	22. To find the center of thy sunken earth

**Chapter Twenty Two | To find the center of thy sunken earth;**

"_My bounty is as boundless as the sea,_

_My love as deep; the more I give to thee,_

_The more I have, for both are infinite."_

_2.2, 133-135 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Elara feels strange, standing in front of Gloss's door wearing an outfit far fancier than she normally would. Clothes are seen as more of an optional trapping when it comes to this apartment. Half the time Gloss struts around without a stitch of clothing on at all. It's a sight she happens to appreciate, which makes her feel all the more strange to be wearing so much._

_Expensive gowns are a creation of the Capitol and they belong to the life she is forced to live here, and she can't claim to have ever worn one outside of an interview of a photoshoot. She's certainly never worn one on a date before. Well, not a date that she had agreed to go on willingly, and not because she is being paid for her company._

_Come to think of it, Elara's never actually been on a real date in her life. Not that she thinks this is one. Is it?_

_She's…nervous. God, why is she nervous? It's just Gloss. Just him and dinner and maybe some drinks afterwards and definitely sex after that. It's not like they haven't done it all before. It just feels different somehow. More serious._

_How is it that sex feels more serious when it goes along with dinner and drinks and conversation?_

_Her hand is shaking when she lifts it up to the door. She can't stand in the hallway forever. She doesn't want someone seeing her in front of Gloss's door like this. She already feels self-conscious enough has it is._

"_It's open!" she hears him call when she hesitantly knocks. The familiar sound of his voice makes her feel a little better…until she opens the door and gets a good look at the sight of his apartment. She barely manages to shut the door behind her, she's so shocked._

_Her nerves come back at full force as she stands there, wringing her hands in front of her and studying the scene that's laid out._

_The table is set with expensive dishes and draped with linens that look brand new, shining with metallic threads that are woven into the fabric and gleaming like gilded silver in the dim light. There's soft music playing in the background, a swaying sort of sound that should by all accounts put her immediately at ease. It doesn't, of course. Her nerves just skyrocket all the more, wrangling together into knots that she can't seem to loosen._

_Candles are everywhere. They flicker cheerfully from the living room to the small dining area and seem to extend into the kitchen too, from what she can see from her position in the hallway. They lend an ambient atmosphere to the room, as if their twinkling flames are brandishing the very emotions that curdle up her throat. God, she's nervous._

_As if the very romantic sight of his apartment isn't enough, Gloss's sudden appearance nearly makes her jump. He's…God, he looks fantastic. Crisp button up shirt, loosened at the collar to show off the slightest hint of skin. Black trousers that look very good on his hips, finished off with a belt that matches the patent black leather shoes he's wearing. His hair is perfectly tousled. His eyes shine when he sees her, the edges of them crinkling up just so with a rare smile._

"_Hey," he greets, pausing for a split second before sweeping in to kiss her cheek. His movements are a little stilted, as if he isn't sure what he should do. He's never really been on a date either – not a real one. Bringing the odd woman to a bar back in District 1 isn't quite the same. He's definitely out of his comfort zone, but he does a superb way of hiding it when he gestures to the room and asks, "What do you think?"_

_His voice is a little proud, a little smug, as if he believes he's cultivated the most romantic scene imaginable and is just as surprised as she is that he'd been able to pull it off. Having never made any kind of effort like this before, he thinks he's done a pretty good job, overall. Women like candles and soft music, right?_

_Elara isn't really sure what to say. Not that it isn't the most romantic thing she's ever walked in on of course. No one's ever done anything like this for her before, which is exactly why she flounders. She doesn't know how to handle herself in this foreign situation. Her relationship with Gloss had, up until this moment, been strictly casual. At least, they had never gone out or had dinner like this. They're comfortable in each other's apartments by now, and they eat together often enough, but this…well, this is a hell of a lot more._

_It certainly isn't casual sex and one night stands. It suddenly feels like they're more than just occasional lovers who part ways more often than they cross paths._

_She stares at him. Gloss raises an eyebrow at her and lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, clearing his throat awkwardly and muttering, "You hate it that much, huh?" Her silence makes him shift restlessly. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and adds, "Maybe I went a little overboard with the candles."_

_He sweeps his eyes over the apartment and makes a face, suddenly wishing that he hadn't spent the last half hour setting them up. Maybe he shouldn't have put on this music, either. It's starting to sound a little cloying._

_Elara laughs awkwardly and says, "It's nice. Really."_

_He looks utterly unconvinced, and she can't blame him. She isn't being very convincing._

_He grunts and turns around, walking over to the radio and pressing a few buttons to turn it off. Only – he never listens to music, and he had only just bought this fucking radio that afternoon for the sole purpose of tonight, and he hasn't really figured it out yet and there are so many stupid fucking buttons on this damned thing that he forgets which one will shut it off._

_What a sight he makes, fumbling with a radio. He's the great Gloss Augustine and he can't even figure out how to work a damned stereo. He's so busy fumbling around that he doesn't even realize that Elara is beside him until she's grabbing the collar of his shirt, spinning him towards her, and leaning up to kiss him._

_For a moment, he fumbles with that, too, until she drags him down into the kiss and takes him to an entirely different world. She has a way of doing that, he's noticed._

"_I like it, really Gloss," she whispers against his mouth, eyes fluttering as she lifts a hand to cup his neck. She presses her body into his and breathes, "I've just…never done anything like this before."_

_He exhales heavily and curls into her arms, kissing her cheek as he embraces her. She's wearing a soft sort of perfume that he breathes in as he lowly mutters, "You know, usually people go on dates first, then have incredibly mind-blowing sex later. We've been doing this out of order."_

_She pulls back to playfully inquire, "Incredibly mind-blowing, hmm?"_

_He smirks down at her, and all of the sudden the stilted awkwardness of before drains away in the crease of his smile. She purses her lips to dampen her own grin and pulls him back against her, hiding it in the collar of his shirt._

"_Be honest. Did I go overboard? I've never done this before either," he says, eyeing the candles and wishing he could just throw the lot of them away. He feels a bit silly for putting them out to begin with._

_Elara looks around the apartment and hums, "It looks amazing, but…I don't need all of this."_

_He catches her eye and quips, "Well what do you need, Winston?"_

_She sends him a coy smile and plays with the top button of his shirt, watching his eyes shudder with a particular darkness that she's grown very familiar with._

"_Just you," she tells him, and he breathes out steadily, as if he isn't sure what to say to that but definitely appreciates hearing it nonetheless._

_Elara laughs and steps away, walking over to the stove. "It smells amazing in here. What's for dinner?"_

_He follows her, caging her in against the edge of the chrome as she looks down at the pan. His hand curls around her hip, edging low over her thigh as he deposits a kiss to the back of her neck. She shivers._

"_I'm starving," he growls to her, and she shivers again but makes an effort to pull away._

"_Gloss," she complains, narrowing her eyes on him. "We're on a date, remember? We're not having sex."_

_He pauses, then frowns and asks, "…Not even later tonight?"_

_The surly tone of his question makes her laugh aloud, and he chuckles, joining in. She shakes her head at him and hedges, "We always end up in bed together eventually. Stop being so childish."_

_This time, he's the one who narrows his eyes. "Childish? Seriously?"_

_She smirks and gestures to the food in the pans. "Serve me dinner already. I'm hungry – and not in the same way you are."_

_He rolls his eyes and mutters, "That's a lie and you know it. You're worse than I am half the time."_

_She smirks wider but doesn't comment, instead walking over to pour them some wine and bring it over to the table. She takes a seat, waiting for him to plate their dinner, and drawls, "I didn't know you owned a tablecloth."_

_Over at the stove, Gloss pauses and carefully responds, "I didn't." He doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't need to. His silence is telling._

_Elara looks over at him and slowly adds, "I didn't know you owned a radio, either."_

_His eyes lift to hers. He repeats, "…I didn't."_

_The smile she sends him then is soft and delicate, and he's suddenly overcome with the desire to kiss over the curve of it._

_It isn't the candles or the music or the table that inspires her heart to race in her chest. It's not the gleaming silverware or the folded napkins that makes her breath shallow out and her body fill with warm, efflorescent emotions._

_No, it's none of that. It's the fact that he had put so much thought into this. Gloss, who rarely ever thinks so far ahead, who never does anything that isn't necessary and hardly talks about his emotions unless she drags them out of him. Gloss, who is secretly endearing and romantic even though he tries his hardest not to show it._

_It's the fact that he isn't trying to hide it right now. That he's showing her all the hidden edges of his heart for once, instead of pushing them out of sight._

_He rolls his eyes at the look she sends him and mutters, "This is the only time I'm doing this. Ever."_

_She chuckles and leans back as he puts her plate in front of her and sends her a narrowed look. She just purrs, "Maybe I'll manage to change your mind by the end of tonight."_

_His response is a mumbled, "The only way you'd manage that is if you're wearing something really hot under that dress."_

_He pulls his chair out and is in the process of sitting down when Elara smirks, "Well, I think it's pretty hot, but I guess you'll have to be the judge of that when you take the dress off."_

_He very nearly misses his chair as he goes to sit in it, and she laughs aloud at him._

_Swallowing thickly, he growls, "I thought you said no sex tonight."_

_She just smirks wider and breezily says, "I said not before we have our date."_

_He lifts his fork and twirls it around his hand. "…But after the date we can have sex?"_

_She rolls her eyes. "Gloss, when do we ever not have sex? Besides, I bought the most erotic pair of lingerie I could find for this. You're not the only one who prepared."_

_His eyes darken._

"_The most erotic pair?" he repeats, musing over her words as he sweeps his gaze over her figure like he's trying to see through her gown._

_She shifts a little beneath his scrutiny and starts cutting into the chicken on her plate. "You have to wine and dine me if you want to see it. And maybe a dance. I've never danced with you before."_

_He incredulously asks, "A dance? What do you think I am, a fucking romantic?" She laughs at him and glances over to the radio, and he glowers, "I knew I shouldn't have bought that damn thing."_

_But they do dance, later on. She doesn't even have to force it out of him – much. He sweeps her around the room with surprising finesse, clearly far more experienced than he wants to admit, and he even seems to have fun when he spins her around and dips her a few times, much to her shock._

_He likes the lingerie, too, when he finally manages to wrangle her dress off, but as for what happens after that, well…_

_Lovers often have a way of transcending the limitations of words._

* * *

"The next Games are only a month away," Elara murmurs over the rim of her coffee mug, catching Gloss's eye as they sit in a pool of sun in her kitchen. He glances at her and hums before turning his attention back to the TV, which he'd turned on only a few moments before. He's sitting on her couch with his arm strewn over the back of it. She watches him from the kitchen and sighs, wondering how they'd gotten so…normal. This quaint setting should not exist in their lives. Morning coffee and news is a thing for ordinary people, and they are far from ordinary. It's a beautiful thing, though, and she'll take what she can get.

"They're already making a big deal about it," he drawls, sarcasm taking root in his voice.

She shrugs. "Well, it's a Quarter Quell. It's not surprising."

He scoffs, but she knows that he agrees because he doesn't say anything further.

She takes another sip of coffee and glances at the time. It's ten o'clock. She's leaving for District 5 in a few hours. Gloss will be staying in the Capitol for another week before he goes back home. At least they won't have to wait as long as they usually have to, to see each other again. Of course, mentoring for another Games never breeds the best moments in their strange relationship, but still. If it means she gets to hold him again, then so be it.

"What do you think the catch will be this time?" he asks her over the sound of Caesar Flickerman's excited voice. He glances over his shoulder at her and says, "For the 50th, they reaped twice as many tributes, right? That was Haymitch's year."

She nods and stands up, walking over to the couch to sit down beside him. As she tucks her legs up, she murmurs, "I don't know…but I do know that Snow isn't happy about Katniss and Peeta." She trails off and looks over at him with a frown.

He frowns back. "If you start over-thinking this, then you're gonna make me over-think it too."

She quips him a dry smile and drawls, "That's never a good thing."

He scoffs and pushes her a little, and she yelps as she nearly spills her coffee. Gloss looks entirely unapologetic. He even snickers at her.

"Well whatever happens, I'll be seeing you in a month, which isn't so bad," he tells her after a moment, looking over to catch her eye.

She makes a face at him. "Isn't so bad? That's an eternity!"

Gloss laughs again, nudging her with his elbow. "I'm so glad you think so. Now I won't feel like an idiot when I start missing you."

She laughs too, but it's a soft sound, cultivated from the intense heartache that she knows she'll start feeling the moment she gets on the train that will take her away from him. Sometimes she thinks she's selfish, wanting him so much. She's got Amelia to think about, after all. But she just can't help herself.

She puts her coffee mug onto the table and nestles into him, pressing her face against his shoulder and curling her legs over his lap. She doesn't say anything in response. He doesn't need her to. The spaces between their silence speaks heavy words.


	23. Nor calmed with any word known to man,

**Chapter Twenty Three | Nor calmed with any word that's known to man,**

"_A villain, that is hither come in spire_

_To scorn at our solemnity this night."_

_1.5, 63-64 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Soft pants fill the air, gasps full of shaky sounds that crest the edges of their physical bodies. It's a sound that Gloss very much likes, especially when his name gets trapped between the breathy noises._

"_Don't stop – " Elara moans, throwing her head back as her fingers clench into his hair. Her legs tighten around his face, but he forces them open with one heave of his hands, sending her a smirking glance as he does. His tongue continues his efforts, lapping against her clit with abandon as if he's never tasted anything so good in all his life. He sucks at her, draws her skin between his teeth very gently, circles a thumb over the top of her clit and watches as she shivers into the mattress and tries to clench her thighs around his head again._

_He chuckles against her and she moans, "Gloss – mmm! Please – "_

_His touch slows and he raises himself up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he raises his eyebrow at her. "Please? You're being very polite this evening, Winston."_

_He squeezes her thigh playfully, and she moans, "I want you inside me." There's a touch of demand in her voice that is far more addicting than he's prepared for, and he swallows as a shudder tries to overpower him._

_He can't help himself. When she gets like this, insisting for him – when she opens her legs and tries to pull him towards her – he changes from a stubborn, obstinate man to a fool with no willpower at all. He falls into her every time, with no hesitation. He can't deny her, because denying her would be denying himself, and he's clearly never been very good at doing that otherwise he wouldn't even be here right now._

"_Please, Gloss," she breathes, looking up at him with eyes far softer than any he had ever seen. What emotion colors the blue tones of them? He pauses. There is a word that comes to mind. A word that shudders against his own heart, too, despite his best efforts._

_He crawls into her arms and nearly sighs out as he presses himself against her body. She's warm and soft, and she provides a type of comfort that he cannot seem to find anywhere else. When he slides into her, he knows why._

_There is no one in the world like Elara Winston._

_Her legs open for him, hands tracing down his body as he thrusts into her. Her fingertips trace the muscles of his chest and spiral down his abdomen, delighting in the flex of his skin beneath her touch. She watches him through half-lidded eyes, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, moaning indelicately as he increases his pace. It's like she can't get enough of him. Like the mere thought of him stopping would be sheer agony._

_Unfortunately, that's exactly what he does when the phone suddenly rings, splintering through the room._

_Elara immediately throws herself into a sitting position. Their bodies separate. He grumbles, but can't exactly stop her when she reaches over to grab the phone on her bedside table. She turns away from him when she answers it, pausing only a moment to ensure that her voice isn't filled with the dark undercurrents of her desire for him._

_Then she warily asks, "Hello?"_

_Gloss glowers at her back, not necessarily upset at her for answering the phone, but more so at the fact that whoever this dumbass is whose calling her, they had interrupted what was going to be a very good time. Also, because nothing good comes from a telephone call at night in the Capitol, and they both know it._

_Her voice is drawn when she murmurs, "…I understand. Yes. I'll be there soon." And when she hangs up the phone, she turns to him with an expression he knows very well. The familiar lines of carefully dampened pain are hard to hide, when one knows what to look for, and he does._

"_Last minute client," she laughs humorlessly, just a small bark of sound that's quickly swallowed back when her eyes dance away from his. Gloss feels something clawing up his chest at the thought of her leaving him now. That's a familiar feeling, too, full of a shattering, wrenching anguish that leaves him breathless but for want of her._

_With a shaky inhalation, she whispers, "I'm sorry…I have to be there in half an hour."_

_He closes his eyes and lifts a hand to rub at his forehead. His own voice is terse when he mutters, "Fine." It's a concrete intensity that he clings to, lest he surrenders to the trembling temptations that threaten to alter his words. He figures that one of them should at least try to be strong._

_Elara swallows thickly and moves to stand up, but he grabs her arm and heaves her back into him, bending his body over hers and burying his face against her neck before she can leave. Their skin presses together and he shivers with the remnants of his desire for her, which always seems so voracious and insatiable. It is a creature all its own, thundering its way between their bodies and coveting what shouldn't be coveted – but falling into the tantalizing lure nonetheless, time after time. It is eternal and relentless, his need for her. Just when he thinks he has a handle of it, that he has successfully wrangled it into a form and a shape, it escapes him yet again like fog that slips through his fingers. Is it elusive, ambiguous, and overmastering._

_Perhaps, if it was only physical desire that he feels, it would not get the better of him as it does, but he has long stopped deluding himself into believing that particular lie._

_Love is a terrible thing. He hates it and craves it all at once._

"_I'll be here," he tells her, pressing his words against her skin and holding her tight to his chest. Her nails dig into his shoulders, clinging to him like a weed that's seconds away from wilting. She breathes in deeply and holds it, like she's hoping that in doing so, some of his strength might be passed to her._

_Gloss turns his head to look at her, and says, "Hey, it's okay. It's okay, Elara."_

_She tries very hard to blink away her tears, but it doesn't matter if they fall or not. He kisses the corner of her eye and she laughs again – another short sound that isn't really a laugh, but is more of a pained grimacing noise that smarts through her entire body._

"…_I hate this. Gloss, I – "_

"_You don't have to explain anything to me," he softly cuts in, pushing his forehead against hers. "I hate it too."_

_She closes her eyes and angrily swipes her hands beneath her eyes, pressing over her eyelids as she bitterly whispers, "I can't cry. If I start, I'll never be able to stop."_

_It's just that the thought of leaving him now of all times, only to go to another man, with her body already blazing with desire for Gloss, and her heart already burning for Gloss, and her thoughts already full of Gloss – she does not know if this is torture, but it certainly feels close to it._

_He sighs and pulls her back against him, glancing at the time over her shoulder as he rubs a hand over her back. He squeezes her tight and murmurs, "You can fall apart later. I'll put you back together."_

_She shakes a little and thoughtlessly begins to say, "God, I lo – " then swiftly cuts herself off with a clearing of her throat, stopping the words before they can appear. Telling Gloss that she loves him is probably not a good idea._

_He pulls back, studying her face closely. After a long moment, he chuckles lowly at her and she cringes playfully._

"_Probably not a good time to say that," she tells him, trying to lighten the mood as much as she can so as to save some face. He just smiles softly and hums._

"…_Well, you are about to go off with some other guy, so I think we should probably hold off on those kinds of sentiments for now," he whispers to her, voice low and burning – beautiful and simple – and she nearly starts crying all over again._

_He sweeps his hand over her cheek and presses a kiss to her lips, chaste and gentle and barely there, before pulling back and sighing, "You should get dressed. You can't be late."_

_He tries very hard to keep his voice as light as possible, even though he'd much rather shout and scream and yell. For her sake, he'll wait until she leaves. This isn't her fault. The fault here lies entirely with the Capitol and with the man who runs it, who manipulates the Victors into doing whatever the hell he wants them to do; who threatens them when he doesn't get his way; who turns their lives into a nightmarish purgatory that never ends._

"_Okay," she breathes, and gets up, fishing for the clothes she has only just removed. He helps her get dressed, buttons up her shirt for her, tries not to think that in just a matter of minutes, some other man will be removing them all over again. He tries to keep his thoughts on when she will return to him, but it's hard. It's hard._

"_I'll see you soon," he tells her once she's dressed, and she nods to him._

"_See you soon," she weakly parrots back, and takes her leave._

_When she's gone, Gloss sits back down on the edge of the mattress and puts his head in his hands, breathing deeply around the clawing pain and anger that threatens to keel him over. Is 'see you soon' all they're allowed? Do they not deserve more than that, or will those words haunt them until they die, playing forever in the background of their soundtrack? Temptations and avarice both have their places, but – maybe he's being foolish, but he doesn't think that love should suffer such anguish as this._

_Unfortunately, at this point, suffering is all he knows how to do._

* * *

"The announcement is coming up," Amelia says, glancing over at the television as she goes to sit beside Elara, who has been sprawled on the couch for most of the day. There's little for her to do in District 5. Since she's a Victor, she doesn't need to make money – she's got enough of that already. She had attempted to work a few shifts at the local school for a while after her Games, just for something to do, but having a job is hard when she's called away to the Capitol every couple of weeks. Besides, she hadn't been very good with the kids. The administration had been more relieved than not when she had taken her leave of the place.

She glances at Amelia as her sister shifts Elara's legs off the couch and sits down where they were laying. The atmosphere between the two sisters has been much better since the harsh words spoken in the past. Amelia had even apologized to her later on – sort of. The girl is far too tempestuous to outright apologize, but from the way she's been acting recently, Elara knows that she's trying to make it up to her. She doesn't blame Amelia for what she had said. There is a lot of truth to those words, but they were spoken in anger.

With a groan, Elara pushes herself up and throws her arms over the back of the couch. She stretches her legs out in front of her and says, "The Quarter Quell is less than a month away. It's about time Snow tells us what to expect."

Amelia grunts, grabbing some popcorn out of the bowl she'd brought with her. Elara thinks it's a little ridiculous that she made popcorn for this, but…well. Amelia doesn't need a reason to eat popcorn, so it's not really that surprising. She sighs and reaches for some herself, grabbing a handful before her sister can horde it all to herself.

"Oh, here's it is! Finally," Amelia huffs, and crosses her legs as the nation's emblem unfurls on the TV screen, and then the camera pans to the President's mansion. The most important man in Panem steps up to the podium and the crowd on the TV goes crazy, cheering for him in ways that makes Elara blanch. If they knew how truly despicable that man is, she wonders if they would call his name with such singular idealism.

"Thank you," the president calls, lifting his hands. It takes a few minutes for the crowd to calm down enough for him to speak. Elara almost wishes that the moment could be dragged out a little bit longer. She's dreading this announcement. The last two Quarter Quells in Panem's history had been terrible in their own right. She shudders to think what this one will bring, especially with the unrest currently dividing the country after the last Games.

Katniss and Peeta had upset the balance, and Snow will do anything within his power to restore it.

The moment the crowd's cheering dies down, Snow begins his speech. He talks at length about the rebellion and the onset of the Hunger Games. He speaks about the previous Quells and what was asked of Panem's citizens during that time in the country's history. His speaks about his predecessors and their role in initiating the Games, paying great detail to the awful consequences of the rebellion that had sparked them. His reasons for doing so are obvious enough: he wants to instill fear into the hearts of the rebels that, even now, wait for their time to take his power. Elara just wishes he would get to the actual announcement so that she can turn the TV off and not have to listen to his voice.

She soon regrets that thought, when President Snow calmly looks out into the crowd of his loyal followers – and into the camera at those who are not – and says, "On this day, the start of the 75th Hunger Games and the 3rd Quarter Quell, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be Reaped from their existing pool of Victors."

At first, she thinks she hears him wrong. When Amelia drops her bowl of popcorn all over the floor in total shock, though, she knows that she hasn't.

She stares at the screen as if she's frozen, eyes trained to President Snow's face. His expression is blank, as if he had just commented on the weather and not given an order that would send half of his Victors to their deaths in one fell swoop. Even his eyes don't seem to give his malice away. They are also blank. Unfeeling.

Her reaction comes very slowly, as if trickling through her as a misty rain might slowly overtake the district. The humidity sparks the air first, making it heavy with moisture and thick to inhale. The mist comes second, skirting over the entire place like a fog, its tiny raindrops just barely grazing skin. And then – then the heavy rain comes, with the scathing winds that blow through bodies with invigorating destruction, displacing the rain in every direction until it becomes a maze of water that none can escape.

Amelia reacts first. She throws the overturned popcorn bowl loudly on the ground and turns to Elara with wide, frightened eyes. Then, grabbing her sister's arm as if she thinks she might disappear on her right then and there, she angrily exclaims, "You can't! You can't leave me! Elara you can't!"

Elara, though, can only sit there on the couch with Amelia bracketing herself against her, shaking her arm like it's a lifeline. She doesn't respond. She's forgotten what words are.

Another Games? Another arena? Is this possible?

Victors and their families are supposed to be immune from the Hunger Games. Once they win, they never have to go back, and their siblings and children never have to face the fear of being Reaped. That's the one good thing about being a Victor. It's the only good thing.

When she won her Games, she was guaranteed immunity. She shouldn't be all that surprised to hear that Snow has revoked that right. Nothing ever lasts in his city. Nothing worthwhile, anyway.

"Stop it, Amelia," she finally says, her voice a hoarse and broken sound that makes Amelia shake her head. She tries to pull her arm away from the constant shaking, but her sister has it in a death grip and isn't about to let go. She turns to her and tensely says, "I'm not going to leave you. Stop saying that."

She's never seen Amelia like this before. Her sister is always so collected. Her usual expression is set into a devil-may-care nonchalance, and she scoffs at silly things like emotions and rules. But right now she's got tears welling up in her frantic eyes, and it makes Elara's chest feel tight and restricted.

She doesn't even realize she's crying until she feels the tears on her cheeks. Amelia starts crying too at the sight of her strong sister breaking.

"You _are_ gonna leave," she cries. "District 5 never wins the Hunger Games. Never."

Elara wipes her eyes and weakly snaps, _"I_ won the Hunger Games. Have a little faith."

Amelia, though, is beyond that point. She hiccups and wails, "You're going into the arena with trained killers this time! You'll never make it!"

Elara swallows thickly and refutes, "We don't know who's going to be Reaped yet – "

"You're going to die and leave me here all alone!" Amelia cries, close to sobbing now. Elara, half shocked to see her in such a state but mostly just heartbroken at it, tugs her sister into her arms and they shake together in tears on the couch.

She draws her fingers through her sister's hair and kisses her head, whispering, "I won't. I won't leave you. I promise."

Amelia only cries harder. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

Elara sighs and doesn't respond. She just gathers Amelia against her and whispers, "Fine. But I can promise you this: I'll do everything in my power to come back to you. I love you, you brat."

Amelia sniffles and punches her shoulder weakly. The only thing she says is a teary, "I know."

But Elara can hear what she's actually saying.

I love you, too.

What a strange pair they make. As she runs her fingers through Amelia hair she thinks that maybe it isn't so strange after all. In her own experience at least, the people she loves most of all are the people she remains silent with.


	24. This wave that breaches Heaven's doors

**Chapter Twenty Four | This wave that breaches Heaven's gleaming doors;**

"_One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun_

_Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun."_

_1.2, 86-87 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_The next time she's in the Capitol, Elara has quite a lot of things to concern herself with besides her clandestine affairs with Gloss. When she returns to the city during her next trip, she has a full schedule. Not only are her nights sold off to clients, but she has quite a few interviews and photoshoots as well, and she finds that she barely has any free time at all. Which is quite a shame, because her time in the Capitol rarely overlaps with Gloss's for so long._

_They have two weeks together before he returns to District 1. Once he leaves, she'll have another week before she is allowed to go home. Already, a week and a half has passed, and she has only seen him for a handful of minutes before one of their appointments had called them away. That's why tonight, she intends on taking full advantage of the fact that neither of them has any prior engagements._

_It's strange, how comfortable they are with each other. How quickly they can both surrender to the relieving peace of being together in whatever capacity they are afforded. Tonight, Gloss doesn't immediately sweep her up when he steps into her apartment as he's done in times gone past. No, tonight, he arrives with a bag of takeout food and a crooked smile, and when he steps inside, he gives Elara a kiss but doesn't stop to linger in her caress._

"_I'm starving," he proclaims, sweeping into the kitchen to set the bag down on the counter. Elara smiles wryly as he shrugs off his jacket and promptly begins to lay the food out, wasting little time about it._

_She goes to retrieve his coat. As she's laying it over one of the kitchen chairs, her eyes catch sight of one of the labels on the food containers and asks, "Is that from Bella Donna's?"_

_Bella Donna's is the Italian takeout place that's located on the corner of the block Elara lives on. It's become a place she frequents when she's in the Capitol and isn't in the mood to cook herself a meal, which if she's being honest with herself, is most nights. The testament to this is the fact that she knows all the workers on a first name basis._

_He grunts. "I got you a sub." By the looks of it, he's also gotten lasagna and some meatballs on the side. There are also some cannoli for dessert. They sell divine ones, all made by hand with the ends dipped into delicate little chocolate swirls. He knows she has a sweet tooth for them._

_Elara raises an eyebrow at the extensive array of food and drawls, "You _must_ be starving," to which Gloss scoffs and replies, "I had three photoshoots today. Barely had time to eat anything."_

_She hums, stepping over to grab a few plates out of the cabinet. Together, they fill them up and Gloss takes them to the living room while Elara pours some wine. Once she joins him, he starts filling her in on what's been going on back in District 1 and what Cashmere has been up to. They've barely had time to share more than a few words to each other over the last week and a half, let alone sit down and have an actual conversation, and his words are a balm to her. She could listen to him talk all day and never tire of the low lilt of his voice._

_With an expressive light in his eyes, he tells her about the sandstorm that they'd had a few weeks ago in District 1 and how it had lasted for nearly two days before settling down again. When she asks him if it's common to get sandstorms where he's from, he tells her that small ones are very common, but they're rarely as bad as the one that had swept through the district most recently._

_As they finish their meal, she smiles and turns to face him, curling her legs up and resting her elbow on the back of the couch. He asks after Amelia and District 5. She informs him that her sister is just as rebellious as ever and tells him about the latest drama that Amelia has managed to get into. Gloss laughs at the stories and at the exasperated way Elara tells them. When she finishes explaining how she'd been called to meet with the principal of Amelia's school only a few days before leaving for the Capitol, Gloss reaches out to brush a strand of her hair out of her face and says, "You'd make a good mother."_

_The words make her pause. Gloss just raises an eyebrow at her._

"_What? You would," he says, as if it is nothing at all to say such a thing._

_She stares at him for a long moment, looks into his fearless hazel eyes, and shrugs, "I don't know about that."_

_Gloss only hums and stands up, collecting their plates and stepping into the kitchen. As he puts them into the sink, he pauses and slowly asks, "Do you want kids someday?"_

_Elara, who had followed him into the kitchen with the wine glasses and napkins, gives him a startled look. She's surprised that he would ask such a question. Surprised, also, to hear the soft sweep of yearning flowing through his voice. He is truly a man of many contradictions – a fierce, imposing Career on the outside; a soft, careful man within. Several years ago, she wouldn't have ever believed that she'd have such a conversation with Gloss. It just shows how much their relationship has changed since its beginnings. How comfortable they've become with the other, that baring their souls has shifted from being a frightful, tempestuous thing to something simple and effortless._

_Hesitantly, she puts the wine glasses down and responds, "If things were different, maybe. If I didn't have to go to the Capitol so often…"_

_If she could be with him without consequence, she also thinks, but keeps those words to herself. There is no other man that she could possibly imagine having such a life with._

_She stares sightlessly at the wall, brows furrowed, imagining what it might be like to have a child or a real home to return to every day or a real relationship to lose herself in. If she imagines Gloss there too, holding their would-be child and grinning his crooked smile, well…she says not a word of it. But to be honest, she doesn't really need to._

_Gloss studies her silently as he dries his hands with a towel. She looks like she's imagining such a life, and he dares not interrupt whatever scene her imagination has conjured, for she looks so very soft and weary at the thoughts that pluck at her mind._

_Then she turns to look at him, piercing him with the sharpness of her blue eyes. She can't help but imagine him as a father. She could see him in such a role. The thought frightens her._

_Gloss stares right back for a long moment before slowly exhaling, "I'm gonna take a shower." He doesn't move though, just waits to see if she's interested in joining him or not, and tilts his head at her with the silent question blazing through his eyes. When Elara hesitates, he chuckles, "You can say no, Elara."_

_At this, she breaks out into an amused smile. He can't describe the relief he feels at the sight of it and the way it immediately shatters the thin veil of awkwardness that had perforated the kitchen only moments before._

"_As if I could ever say no to you," she tells him, pulling him towards her bedroom with a smirk. Gloss laughs, twisting their hands together until their fingers entwine. By the time they reach the bathroom, he is already unbuttoning his shirt, his movements stilted with only one hand. Elara quickly turns to help him the first moment she can, pushing him against the bathroom door with a coy smile and reaching up to undo the buttons with graceful fingers._

_He watches, hands lowering to grasp her waist. After a moment of silence filled only with twinkling eyes and eager fingers, Gloss whispers, "You would, you know."_

_She's in the middle of tugging his shirt off, smoothing the fabric from his broad shoulders, but his words give her pause. It's clear that he's referring to the conversation they had only just come away from. That he is so adamant about proving this to her makes her wonder at his true motives, but when she looks into his eyes she sees only glimmering honesty there in the hazel depths._

_Gloss's mouth tilts up. He taps her chin, lifting her face up to his and leaning down to kiss her. His fingers flex around her waist as he draws her closer, letting his lips speak unspoken words that even he dares not say aloud – words of a future that he can almost touch, for he can see it play out before him so easily. A life with her. A home with her._

_It's incredibly surreal, sometimes, how one kiss can speak a thousand words all on its own. How just one glance can fill the pages of a book with sentences too intricate to vocalize. How the firm press of his hands against her and the breathless way they sink into each other speaks volumes all by itself._

_Against her mouth, Gloss chuckles and breathes, "You coming?"_

_He looks over at the shower, and she bites back a smile._

_She turns the water on and follows him in, pulling him against her and back into that kiss before the water even has a chance to heat up all the way. The lukewarm stream soon turns hot, and the occupants of the small space reform as well. The kiss breaks, but they linger close, lost in thought and each other…_

_Until her hand begins to move over his chest, trailing down his body with an intent that is rather hard to ignore. Well, Gloss has never been good at ignoring this anyway. When she wraps her hand around him, he tightens his grasp of her with a shaky breath that soon turns into a groan as he hardens in her palm._

"_Elara," he murmurs, hands ducking over her, too. Before long, she's gasping into him just as surely as he's gasping into her. Pleasure bolts through them with an earnest urgency, and when they finally sink into each other later on, they don't pause to wonder at the strange current of it._

_Some things are not meant to be questioned. Sometimes, blind faith is all the answer they need._

* * *

Ignatius's arrival to District 5 a week later is a wake-up call that Elara is not prepared for. She'd spent the week doing her best to ignore the upcoming events, with little success. The announcement of the Quarter Quell hangs over her head like a raincloud. She's afraid to enter the arena again, but there is no question at all that she will. There are only two Victors in her district: her and Harley. District 5 rarely wins the Hunger Games, after all. They will both be going back in. They don't even have the small possibility of hope like the others do, where there are multiple Victors who might be Reaped.

Honestly, she's not even sure why the Reaping has to happen at all. It's the formality of it. Everyone already knows that there will only be one slip of paper in each bowl: one for her, and one for Harley. The idea of having to stand there and wait for the inevitable sound of her name is a hell in and of itself, especially when Ignatius and her stylists drop in on the day of the Reaping to ensure that she looks like Elara Winston, the Victor and heartthrob, and not Elara, the unlucky girl from 5 who dresses in sweatshirts and jeans most days and rarely makes an effort to look presentable.

What's worse is that when Ignatius does arrive, he's in tears.

"My darling," he rushes forward, throwing his arms around Elara's shoulders and hurtling her against his chest. He pats her hair as if he's trying to console her, despite the fact that he's the one who's a sobbing mess, and tearfully exclaims, "Don't worry, I'll make sure you look absolutely stunning before you enter the arena! You can count on me."

Elara quips him an empty smile that only makes him cry all the more. He pats his face, wiping at his tears and bemoaning at how they've ruined his perfectly done make-up, and she just sighs.

"Thank you, Ignatius," she tries to say as genuinely as possible. It isn't his fault he's such a creature, after all. Her attempt at kindness only makes his tears fall faster, and she pulls away before he can ruin her shirt with wet mascara.

"Oh sweetheart, you're welcome," he sobs, patting her shoulder as he guides her towards the stairs. The other three stylists twitter quietly to the side, sending Elara mournful glances that, despite the circumstances, she knows to be genuine. Capitolites might not be the sincerest of people, but Elara's been around these ones for years now, and they've all gotten to know each other fairly well. The sadness that captures their eyes is real, but she isn't silly enough to assume that it will last. Once the Games begin, their emotions will translate over to excitement as always. The Capitol does so love its Games, and the addition of the Victors this year is bound to be far more enticing than usual.

Despite Ignatius's tears, he still berates her upon seeing the state of her unshaven legs. When he lifts up her arm and gasps in horror at the fact that she hasn't shaved her armpits, either, his tears immediately dissipate into utter panic. The stylists seem to share his alarm, for they abruptly flitter into the bathroom to fill the tub with water and start laying out supplies. Razors, shaving cream, lotions, oils – it all makes Elara cringe a little, but she knows better than to complain.

Ignatius claps his hands, sniffling the last of his sorrows away as he delves into his stylist mode, and insists, "Clothes off, please! I must see the extent of how much you've let yourself go in my absence!"

Elara huffs but doesn't argue, pulling her sweatshirt off with one fluid movement and then wrestling with the remainder of her clothes. She throws her jeans and underwear in a messy pile by the wall, no longer embarrassed as she once was to stand in front of Ignatius naked. He eyes her unshaven body with a critical eye, sighing and muttering to himself as he walks around her.

Occasionally, he reaches out to touch her, lifting the tips of her hair to check for split ends, checking the softness of her skin as he brushes his fingertips over her shoulder. As he does, the other stylists bustle around the room, spewing their usual gossip. Only this time, what they're gossiping about is the upcoming Quarter Quell, and who they think will be Reaped. They're careful enough with their words to not mention who they want to be Reaped, but Elara gets the gist of the conversation as she watches Ignatius.

It's not like there's much else to talk about, really. Half the Capitol is no doubt in an uproar about this Quell, though Elara isn't sure yet if they're pleased or not about it. Surely not every Capitolite will shed tears for their Victors, like these silly stylists have. She can think of one man who is probably feeling quite gleeful about it all.

They say that the Quarter Quells were pre-written at the start of the rebellion, and opened only when that Quell was to be announced, but Elara knows better. Perhaps that had been the case for the first two, but the 75th Hunger Games is different. President Snow would do anything to get rid of Katniss Everdeen and her fated lover. She poses too great a problem to his perfect world.

"We have a lot of work to do," Ignatius sighs, ending his examination of the state of her and pushing her gently towards the bathroom. The other stylists quickly take charge, leading her to where her bath awaits and preparing their various forms of torture as they assign themselves different things to do.

Elara sits through it all, occasionally gritting her teeth when they pull too hard at her hair or press the razor too firmly against her skin in their pursuit of trying to get every single hair off of her. They lather her with softening oils, put a face mask on her, and vigorously clean the dirt from her nails as she sits there in the tub. All the while, Ignatius chatters over his gossiping retinue, pulling out various gowns he'd brought with him and showing them off to her in the doorway of the bathroom. Apparently, he's been crazily designing dress after dress since the Quell had been announced only a week or so prior, for he is intent on ensuring that she stands out. Unfortunately, his designs are a little more extravagant than she prefers, cutting figures that showcase far more skin than she appreciates.

Her gown for the Reaping is a satin number. It's a lush emerald color that compliments her hair very nicely, but the sides of it are cut all the way up to her thighs and decorated with a see-through lace that makes her distinctly uncomfortable. When viewing her from her profile, her entire leg is on display. Luckily, the rest of it is relatively modest, with a neckline that Elara doesn't mind terribly. When Ignatius zips it up, she has to admit that it does look good on her figure, despite the show of leg.

"You look ferocious," he tells her with a wink. While she had been bathing, he'd reapplied his makeup and looks as pristine as ever. Standing beside her in a matching emerald shirt, Elara can appreciate his show of loyalty – though she knows it isn't likely to get her very far. Or him, for that matter.

"Come, the Reaping will be starting soon and we don't want to be late," he tells her, sweeping his hand in a grand gesture at the door. She sighs, runs her hands over the dress one more time, and swallows.

She wonders, suddenly, if she will ever be inside this room again, if she'll ever sleep in that bed or brush her teeth in that bathroom. They are mundane things. Silly, really, to think about right now, but – the thoughts still pull at her, and she knows why.

She likely won't survive.

They make their way downstairs, and Elara catches sight of Amelia, who is dressed in a nice dove grey outfit that she only wears when she absolutely has to, for she hates dressing up. The two sisters have that in common, at least.

The moment she sees her, Elara rushes forward to embrace her, and Amelia – stubborn, arrogant, impulsive Amelia – swallows tightly and throws her arms around Elara in return. They stand there at the center of the kitchen, beneath the eyes of the silly stylists, for what seems like forever. And yet, the seconds slip by too quickly, and all too soon they draw back.

"Come on," Elara whispers, wrapping an arm around her sister's shoulders and guiding her to the door. Amelia curls her arm around Elara's waist as she does, and together they walk in front of the stylists on their way to the district square, their heads high despite the curdling grief that already shudders through the air between them.

Amelia is an intelligent girl. She hopes for the best, but inside she must know that this may very well be the last time she will walk down these streets with her sister beside her.

The square is already bustling when they arrive. Harley stands on the stage by himself. Elara goes to join him after saying goodbye to Amelia. It is hard to drag herself away from her sister, the girl she had practically raised upon the death of their parents. She doesn't really know how she does it, but somehow she walks onto the stage and takes her place beside her district partner, sending him a nod as she does. He nods back, giving her a rare smile that looks strange on his normally blank face. It is a show of unification, in a way. A sign that he will stand by her – at least, she hopes he will. Harley and her have never been that close, but he's still a part of her home, and she a part of his.

Olive, the escort of District 5, goes through the motions. It's strange. Elara has listened to the introductory video that's always played at the Reapings for years now. She could repeat the words verbatim by now. And yet, hearing them on this day, at this hour, with the knowledge of what comes next bearing down on her shoulders…it all feels distinctly different, as if she has never stood here on this stage before.

When Olive finally reaches for the bowl, Elara takes a deep breath and wills her expression to fall into blankness. The cameras will be on her and Harley now, and she knows that this will be an important moment. She cannot appear weak. She does an awfully good job, all things considered. When Olive reaches into the bowl and pulls out the only piece of paper that it contains, Elara sets her shoulders back.

The escort unrolls the paper and says into the microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Elara Winston, the female tribute for the 75th Hunger Games." The words are strangely blank, not nearly as eager as usual. Olive isn't as silly as some escorts, but she's still a Capitolite through and through.

Elara's mouth quirks up into a smirk as she steps forward, smiling sarcastically to the silent crowd. Really though, her smile is mostly for the cameras – for the Capitol. This is a game, a part to play, and she knows how to play it.

"Congratulations, my dear," Olive intones, pasting on a false smile as her eyes water just slightly. She swallows thickly and pats Elara's shoulder as she comes to stand next to her. Elara doesn't respond – she just glances at Olive, pretending that her heart isn't ricocheting around in her chest, pretending that the panic that scrapes at her throat is only excitement. It's a fool's errand though, trying to convince herself of such a fallacy.

Olive clears her throat and reaches for the bowl that contains Harley's name. Like Elara, there is only one slip of paper in the bowl for the male tribute, for there is only one male tribute in District 5. It's almost amusing, in a dark, disturbing way, as Elara and Harley stand up there on that stage and allow the Capitol to go through the motions. They already know what will happen. Everyone knows what will happen. There are only two tributes from this district, and they are both going back into the arena.

It's still something of a shock though, when Olive's voice rolls over the names that everyone is already aware are on those slips of paper. When she calls, "Harley Balstrod!", Elara's partner pauses for one long moment, staring hard at the floor of the stage as silence perforates the space. Then, fists clenching, chest rising, Harley steps forward to occupy the space beside her, and in a rare show of comradery, he lifts a hand to her back.

Olive turns back to the mic and exclaims, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the tributes of the 75th Hunger Games!"

If Olive had expected for people to cheer at the proclamation, she is sorely let down. The crowd is so silent that Elara can hear the wind that constantly blows through the city from the lake on its parameter, rustling through the people as if it is pushing leaves from an overgrown pathway. No one makes a single sound, or says a single word.

Olive swallows tightly and wrings her hands in front of her with nervous energy, but she is saved from having to do something about this strange silence when the doors of the Justice building are thrown open and a group of Peacekeepers appear at the entrance.

Elara turns to stare at them in confusion. This is odd. Peacekeepers have never barged into the proceedings in such a way. When they gesture for the two Victors to follow them, muttering something about escorting them to the train, it falls into place. Snow doesn't want to give anyone any time to plot against him. Those few minutes spent saying goodbye to family and friends are minutes that could be spent exchanging dark plans against his reign.

She turns her head as a Peacekeeper impatiently snatches her arm and pulls her forward, eyes frantically searching the crowd to catch sight of Amelia. But the girl is lost among the sea of people, and Elara has only a few scant seconds before she's being pulled forcibly into the Justice building and the doors are slamming behind her.

"Train's this way," the Peacekeeper grunts, and tightens his fingers around her upper arm when she tries to rip it out of his grasp.

She can do nothing but follow him, stumbling in her heels at his fast pace and turning to send Harley a pursed expression. He frowns back, but doesn't say a word. There isn't much to say, after all, in a moment such as this.

There is no fanfare whatsoever as Elara and Harley are shuttled off to the Training Center. Oh, the crowds are enormous, cheering at them the moment they see the District 5 train pull into the station despite the fact that District 5 isn't nearly as popular are some of the other districts. Victors are viewed in an almost god-like way by these people though, no matter where they come from.

Elara knows that sponsors are important, so she tries to wave at them as they are led to their car, tossing her smiles to these creatures who yell her name with such maddening voices. The moment they are in the relatively safe confinements of the car, however, her smile drops away so quickly that it might have been discomfiting, in any other circumstance.

She knows the drill. She's been a mentor for eight years now, after all. When they arrive at the Training Center and are immediately snatched up by the stylists, she doesn't argue. Ignatius and his group wait for her in one of the curtained sections where all the tributes go to for initial beautifying. When he sees her, he lets out a garbled exclamation and throws his arms around her, as if he had not seen her for an age. It's a little silly, considering how it hasn't even been a full twenty four hours.

She inclines her neck, trying to catch sight of the other Victors. She sees Enobaria from 2. The fierce woman throws her curtain open with a vengeance and struts into her designated space without a backward glance. Chaff and Seeder from 11 are just walking into the room, and a few other Victors are idling around while their stylists set things up, but Elara doesn't see the one person she longs to see most of all. Perhaps he has not yet arrived, or perhaps his stylists are already working on him. In any case, she doesn't have time to look any further, for Ignatius gestures to her section with a tearfully amicable expression and she sighs, walking over to the chair and sitting down as one of her stylists close the curtain and separates them from the rest of the group.

"Hair, make-up, and nails – hurry now!" Ignatius orders, clapping at the stylists. The creatures immediately obey, each veering off to do their selected task. Despite the fact that they had done the exact same thing only a few hours ago, they bear down upon her as if she is a blank canvas in need of serious work. Their hands are aggressively earnest as they pull her hair down and begin to wash it again, scrub off her make-up so as to reapply it, and start redoing the nails that they had only just put on. All the while, Ignatius rattles on as he is wont to do, telling her about the inspiration he had regarding the Tribute Parade and how she'll look absolutely magnificent in the costume he'd designed for her. If he's trying to impart some of his excitement into Elara, he'll have to try a lot harder. Her stomach is roiling with nerves and tension. She feels like she might be sick.

Still, she doesn't complain and she doesn't move throughout the long process. After an hour of sitting in that chair, her hair is looped up over her skull in braids, twinkling with little lights that the stylists had woven through the strands. Her make-up is almost iridescent, flawless in a way that she has grown used to since her victory eight years prior. Her nails gleam with a dark color that looks bluish-emerald when the light hits it just right.

The stylists step back and coo at her, reaching out to touch the edge of her robe with fawning eyes as they look down upon their creation. Elara just stares at the curtain blankly, hardly noticing them. Her thoughts are whirling, ricocheting with the nerves that she had thus far managed to contain, just barely. Now that she's here in the Capitol, going through the motions she knows so well, battling with the knowledge that this week may very well be her last, the nerves press at her like demons clawing up her throat, and she can barely even breathe.

She is so afraid.

Ignatius distracts her, though, just a bit, when he approaches with the costume he had designed for this very moment. Her eyes flit to his figure, watching as he winks at her and unzips the black fabric covering to pull the gown out. And, even though Elara is not interested in dressing up for any reason, even she has to admit that Ignatius is truly talented.

It's a gleaming thing, with yards of chiffon undulating down the skirts in different layers. Blues and whites and blacks shine at her, hinting at darker emerald tones beneath the chiffon fabrics. It reminds Elara of the lake that presses out at the edges of her district. The way the fabric falls, it looks almost like water.

When she steps into it and Ignatius zips it up for her, he tuts, "Ah, that's not all, my dear. This is a costume, you know."

He reaches behind a panel of fabric at her shoulder blade and fiddles with something for a moment. Then, quite suddenly, the entire outfit begins to shine with dozens of tiny lights that cascade from her corseted torso down through the chiffon skirts. They get shadowed by the different colors, making the lights appear emerald and blue and a myriad of other shades that Elara is not quite eloquent enough to express with words. Coupled with the lights woven through her hair, she looks like some strange water fairy. It's remarkable. Overdone, of course, but remarkable.

Ignatius beams proudly at her through the mirror and says, "I thought the lightbulbs were a bit overused. You deserve more."

Elara barks out a laugh and sends him an amused glance. "I'm grateful you think so." She truly is. She's always hated the lightbulb costumes that the stylists often use for her district. She had to wear one during her Games eight years ago and it was absolutely awful.

But this…this is not awful. This is incredible.

"Ah! Shoes!" Ignatius exclaims, and snaps his fingers to the nearest stylist, who immediately rushes to procure a box. Ignatius pulls it open and sets a pair of heels on the floor by Elara's feet. He holds his elbow out so that she can balance herself while she steps into them, and gives him a little laugh despite the sickening clench of her nerves trying to get the better of her.

Ignatius smiles. "You look wonderful. Absolutely gorgeous." They idle there in front of the mirror for a long moment before Ignatius suddenly jolts out a shocked, "Oh dear – the parade will be starting soon! Off you go my dear, hurry now!"

She squeezes his elbow one last time in silent thanks and obeys, walking to the curtain to pull it open. There are a few more Victors on their way to the hall, but she doesn't see Gloss or Cashmere anywhere, so she assumes that they are already at their chariot. She heads to the doors, feeling a bit ridiculous for the twinkling gown she's wearing, and also oddly beautiful at the same time. Granted, it's a lot better than wearing a lightbulb on her head and the awful silver vinyl fabric that she'd been forced into the last time she'd made this walk. She passes several familiar faces of a few of the other Victors as she makes her way to the parade hall, and decides that she is actually quite lucky that Ignatius is as talented as he is. Not all of the costumes are as extravagant as hers, nor do they look as nice on some of the others, who are frankly too old to be able to pull off such ridiculous outfits.

Her pace quickens. She's excited to see how the District 1 stylists had decided to dress Gloss and Cashmere. A teasing insult is at the tip of her tongue as she enters the hall, eyes immediately scanning for the two figures she knows are here. Before she can catch sight of them, though, Johanna appears, and she makes such a sight that Elara completely forgets who she's looking for.

"Is that…?" she slowly asks, only for Johanna to give her a menacing grimace and a not so friendly shove. Elara honestly can't help but snicker a little at the reaction. Johanna looks pissed.

"Yeah, I'm a fucking tree, big surprise there," she snarks angrily, and tries to cross her arms over the hard shell of the tree that surrounds her figure. Only, the shell is too problematic and it gets in the way, making Johanna's glower deepen as she just drops her hands to her sides instead.

The sight makes Elara burst out into laughter, which makes Johanna glare and put her hands on her hips…but with the costume's barriers, she looks incredibly ridiculous, and Elara laughs even harder because of the sight she makes.

That's about the time when another voice drawls, "Your costume actually looks half decent, Winston."

Elara chokes back her laughter and turns to see Gloss's tall figure pressed into the space behind her. His arms are bared and crossed, showing off his impressive musculature, but it is the _rest_ of him that really catches her attention.

He's…sparkling. Her eyebrows shoot up and she steps forward in fascination, reaching out to lightly touch his chest, which is covered in a gauzy, see-through fabric and studded with gemstones. His muscles are on clear display beneath the fabric, which does very little in the way of modesty. At least he's wearing actual pants. A small favor.

He's decked out in jewels from head to foot, no doubt representing this particular aspect of the luxury district from which he hails. He's wearing a large sapphire necklace around his neck and several rings on his fingers. It's a little amusing to see him like this, really. Gloss is always so masculine. He usually dresses very nicely when he's in the Capitol – he has an image to cultivate, after all – but he isn't the type to gravitate towards fashion. In fact, he usually complains her ear off whenever he's forced into clothes that he dislikes, which is most of the time.

But now, seeing the sparkling, iridescent image he creates, Elara can't possibly hold back the shards of laughter from coloring her voice.

"…Where's your tiara?" Elara inquires, voice tinted with teasing sarcasm. She glances up at him and snickers, brushing her fingers over the many gems sewn into the fabric of his costume. He really is sparkling. She wonders how blinding he'll be outside beneath the sun.

Gloss rolls his eyes with a grunt and mutters, "I'm just happy I'm not dressed like Odair."

Behind them, Johanna adds, "He's wearing a net."

Elara, who hasn't seen Finnick yet, turns with a raised eyebrow and questions, "A net? What do you – oh." She sees him alright. It would be hard not to. He's the only person in the hall who is practically naked, and his bronze skin is like a beacon you can't help but stare at. Elara hums, dropping her eyes to the net that wraps precariously around his hips, and says, "Mm…doesn't leave much to the imagination."

Gloss sends her a raised brow, looking perfectly unimpressed. Elara takes one look at his narrowed eyes and laughs, shaking her head and murmuring, "I didn't say I _was_ imagining him, Gloss."

He just grunts, scoffing to himself and glancing back down to her figure, which is wrapped up in gauzy fabrics and miniature lights that twinkle whenever she moves. After a moment of studying her, he tells her, "You look nice."

It's her turn to send him a raised eyebrow. In turn, Gloss gives her a confused look as she laughs, "Nice? That's the word you're going for?"

He snorts. "Stop fishing for compliments."

She pauses, then snickers a bit as she steps closer to him and whispers, "I think I'll need Finnick's net for that."

Gloss's responding glower is enough to spark her into a fit of snickering laughter all the way to where her chariot awaits.


	25. Nor made less vast, or vaster by demand,

**Chapter Twenty Five | Nor made less vast, or vaster by demand,**

"_I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far_

_As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea,_

_I should adventure for such merchandise."_

_2.2, 82-84 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_She doesn't know why she's so nervous. It isn't such a strange thing, really, buying someone a gift. It's what normal people do when they're with someone. They think of them at inconvenient times, wonder how they're doing, take notice of their likes and dislikes, their hobbies and dreams. They learn unnecessary things about them. Silly things, useless things. Like the fact that Gloss hates the cold, and the rain, and takes steaming, burning showers and drinks his coffee with cream, no sugar. He doesn't like sweet things._

_But he does like sleeping late, and eating big breakfasts, and wearing comfortable clothing. He loves the dawn, even though he usually sleeps through it, and when he has nightmares, it's the only time he drinks tea. He claims that the taste of it drives away his dreams. It's his superstitious cure-all. Superstitious, because it doesn't matter what kind of tea he makes. According to him, any will do._

_Elara knows a lot of useless things about him. Things that she doesn't need to know. Yet – all of these things are reasons why she loves him, though she couldn't explain why with words alone. It's just a feeling that rises up within her every time she's near him – an inexplicable wave that crashes through her whenever she learns something new about him that she hadn't known before. It makes her feel that somehow, in some way, there is something real between them after all, and that thought brings her far more comfort than it probably should, for she knows that theirs is a love that can never be._

_Even so, they both mean something significant to each other otherwise they wouldn't keep coming back into one another's orbits every time they're in the Capitol. Still, Elara wouldn't characterize their relationship to be normal. If anything, it is as far from normal as it could possibly be._

_Maybe that's why she's so nervous. Even though she's been with Gloss many times over – mapped out his body with her hands and her lips and breathed words against his skin and loved every contour of his physical form – she isn't really with him. Even though she knows many useless, unnecessary things about him that most people don't, they aren't truly together. The claim she has over him is a jaded thing, inconsequential and wild. Its unsteadiness is what marks every single one of the moments that they share._

_With a hesitant pause, Elara looks down at the box in her hands. The papery edges of the expensive cardboard trim gleams silver in the light. The saleswoman had asked if she'd wanted it wrapped, but she had denied the service. Partially because she wasn't entirely sure that she wouldn't return the damned thing, and partially because she couldn't quite decide if she really liked it or not._

_What does one get a man who already has everything? District 1 is a place with very little poverty. Gloss has told her himself, plenty of times, that he'd been a spoiled brat growing up, always getting whatever he wanted. What use would he have for anything that she gets him?_

_She slowly opens the box to look at the contents. The fine woolen sweater that's nestled in the tissue paper is a simple piece, with several cables twisting up the front. The entire thing is a deep forest green, so dark that it's nearly black in the dim lighting. She's not sure that she's ever seen Gloss wear anything like this before, but she knows that he likes comfortable clothes and soft fabric, and the merino wool blend is so soft that it feels like a cloud when she reaches down to touch it._

_It had been a spur of the moment buy. She'd been shopping for something to get Amelia for Christmas, deciding to bring her back something from the Capitol rather than venture into the multitude of stores in District 5 that she's already picked through many times over. She hadn't even gone into the men's section – just glimpsed the sweater from the aisle as she was walking by – and a multitude of images had swept through her mind when she had seen it._

_It's funny, how a random item can instill such thoughts within you. At once, she was pressed back into days gone by – sunlit moments on the couch of her apartment, sharing jokes and laughter; whispered encouragement in the dark haze of night as they exchanged laughter for other pursuits; last minute kisses, brief but lingering, in quiet hallways…_

_Elara doesn't have a specific purpose for buying him such a thing. They have never exchanged gifts before for any reason. And as she sits there on her couch and traces the knitted material, she wonders if she needs one._

_She doesn't have time to think any further on it, though, before a knock sounds at her apartment door. With a startled jerk, she hastily throws the lid on the box and stands up, a panicked light catching her eyes as she stares down at the gift. She wonders, briefly, if she should just return it after all. What if Gloss thinks it's a silly thing to do and that such an act would take their strange relationship too far into deeper territory – territory that he has carefully steered them away from?_

_Another knock sounds at the door, impatient this time, and she sighs before walking over to it and thrusting it open before she can allow her thoughts to spin her for a loop. She's already bought the damned thing. She might as well stay the course._

_Some lingering trace of panic must show in her face, because when she opens the door and Gloss steps inside, he asks, "You okay?"_

_She moves aside to accommodate him, shifting a bit so that he can pass. As he does, his hand presses against her waist, catching her as the door swings shut. He doesn't even let her respond to his question before he's leaning down to kiss her thoroughly._

_Elara makes a surprised sound against his lips but doesn't pull away. Instead, she draws herself closer, folding her body into the familiar edges of his. He makes a low, pleased noise in the back of his throat and draws back to pull her deeper into the apartment. They pass right by the couch she'd just been sitting on, not even seeing the white package laying atop the table in front of it. Gloss is far too busy pulling her into the bedroom with a crooked smirk, and Elara is too busy laughing and falling into his plans for the evening without complaint._

_It's not until much later that either of them takes notice of it again._

_Gloss heads into the kitchen to get a couple of drinks. He knows Elara's apartment as if it's his own, and it takes him only a few minutes to get two whiskeys prepared. He's on his way back to the bedroom, where his lover is thoroughly satisfied (he's made sure of that), when he sees the white box laying innocently on the living room table. It's such an unusual sight that he pauses and steps over to it, head tilted as he studies the familiar stamp on the lid. It's from Gigi's, one of the largest and most expensive department stores in Panem, and it naturally bolsters his curiosity. Elara isn't the type of woman to shop in places like that. Her down to earth, sensible personality is one of the things he loves about her. She is as far removed from the generic Capitolite woman as the sun is from the moon._

_As expected, he opens the box. He's too curious not to._

_His first reaction to the wool sweater that sits within its tissue paper wrappings is aggravation. At first he assumes that one of Elara's clients had gifted it to her. She's received gifts from them in the past – tokens that are meant to mark her, as some sort of symbolic sign that they own her in some way. She usually doesn't even open them up. He can't stand it when he sees signs of them in her trash, despite the fact that the majority of them are unopened and ignored. It angers him to think that those men believe they have the right to even make such a gesture._

_With a grumble, he sets the drinks down and lifts the sweater out of the packaging, which is when his reaction changes._

_This is a man's sweater. It's obvious enough just by the cut of it alone, but it's also several sizes too big for Elara. Why does she have a man's sweater in her apartment? He can think of only one reason, and like any man in his peculiar situation, in a relationship that isn't really a relationship, well…he jumps to conclusions._

_Grasping it tightly, Gloss heads back into the bedroom with a firm expression drawn over his features. It's an expression that he wears when he thinks he needs to protect himself – tight jaw, wary eyes, taut shoulders. It's an expression that Elara knows fairly well by now, because in their line of work, protecting themselves is something they need to do despite the fact that it rarely does them any good._

_She's still laying on the bed, sheets gathered up to her chest with needless modesty. She doesn't need to cover up. Gloss could imagine her form with his eyes closed. In fact, he often does._

_She looks up at him when he enters, but the satisfied smile she's wearing slips away when she sees what he's holding. Her reaction to it is not quite what he's expecting. Instead of a plethora of awkward excuses, she merely sits up with an exasperated sigh and says with no small amount of frustration, "You weren't supposed to open it yet, you idiot."_

_Her words seem to take him by surprise, for Gloss immediately falters. He stares at her, eyebrows pinched, and slowly asks, "…I wasn't?" His voice is as wary as the rest of him, as if he knows he's treading into unfamiliar territory._

_Elara rolls her eyes, not noticing the careful way he looks at her. Despite his own reservations, he can't help but let his eyes flicker over her body. He feels the dull roar of desire in the back of his mind – the near constant thrum of it as it sweeps through him, as it always does whenever she is near – but he presses it down._

"_You always ruin my surprises," she grumbles, throwing the sheets off and hunting down her robe. All the while, Gloss just stands there with the sweater hanging from his hand, watching her with almost bewildered eyes. It takes her several more moments to notice the spin of it in his gaze, but when she does, Elara pauses and frowns, "What?"_

_She slowly cinches her robe together and studies him, finally taking note of the cautious way he's holding himself. If she's being honest with herself, this is exactly the sort of response she'd expected from him – that he'd think her crazy to even consider buying him something, when they aren't technically committed to each other. It's a silly thing to do. Thoughtless. Perhaps she should have tucked the box away after all, before opening the door and letting him inside._

_Gloss furrows his brow and haltingly asks, "…You bought this for me?"_

_Though Elara doesn't know it, the reason he is so surprised is because he'd rather thought that she had purchased this gift for someone else. Someone who might claim her in ways he cannot. Someone who, perhaps, she is forging a better relationship with back in District 5. A man who can take care of her for the long haul, who will be there for her when she needs him the most. Someone who won't be a hundred miles away whenever she has a nightmare and needs someone to pick up the pieces of her that has been rattled from all her past deeds._

_As much as he wishes it was different, he knows he is not that man. He knows he never will be. They come from different worlds, and no amount of Capitol meetings will change that. It doesn't matter how often they might see each other, or how intimately they know each other's bodies and souls, or how many times they might find themselves in the other's bed, fighting for their sanity within the coil of the other's presence._

_He's been wondering when Elara Winston would get tired of all this. The secrecy, the longing, the hellos and goodbyes. And when he had opened that box, he had thought that perhaps that time has finally arrived._

_Maybe some of that confusion weaves itself into his words or his tone or simply in the way he's looking at her, because Elara just stares at him for a long moment. For the life of him, he cannot figure out what emotion drives through her gaze. It is a mixture of what might be awkwardness, or discomfort, or even pity, but there is something else there too – something so very genuine and gentle, ardent and soft, that makes him feel ragged to be on the receiving end of it. It feels, almost, as if she is looking right through him, right down to the very bones and sinew of his person. Right down into his soul._

_It makes him uncomfortable, until he realizes that she is probably feeling just as awkward as he is._

_With a clear of her throat, Elara fiddles with the ties of her robe and asks, "…Do you like it?"_

_Gloss frowns and looks down at the sweater as if the object itself is a foreign thing he has never laid eyes upon before. He lifts it up and studies it for the first time, taking in the color, the texture, the feel of it against his fingers…and he does like it, he supposes, but not because of any of those things. He likes it because she has thought of him, and that in and of itself is a warm caressing notion that takes him aback a little bit, because it's such an encompassing feeling._

_And yet…_

_His mouth twists into an amused expression and he wryly wonders, "You know District 1 is a desert…right?"_

_The question is almost idle, and the words are a bit thoughtless. He doesn't mean for them to sound ungrateful when that is truly the last thing he feels, but he sees Elara's shoulders stiffen nonetheless, and when she turns to face him, her expression is drawn in a way that speaks of quiet unease. Gloss flounders for a moment, not knowing what to say, and they just stand there in the middle of her bedroom staring at each other – one bare save for the briefs he had hastily pulled on before, the other tightly grasping the stays of a robe that is threatening to slip off her shoulder even now._

"_I'll wear it in the Capitol though," he adds quickly, finally finding his voice. He's definitely at a loss. He isn't exactly well schooled with dealing with the fairer sex where it concerns matters that need some degree of guidance. He clears his throat and studies Elara's expression carefully._

_She laughs, but he can tell that it isn't a genuine laugh, because he knows what that sound is like in the tones of her voice. He knows how lovely it is to hear it, and this laugh does not compare._

"_I can always bring it back," she says with a shrug, then purses her lips and adds, "I didn't consider…District 1."_

_But Gloss just frowns and folds the sweater carefully before laying it down on her dresser. As he does, he says, "Don't be stupid. I like it. I was just confused because I thought…" he trails off, swallows, and turns back to face her as he admits, "I thought it was for someone else is all."_

_His voice is strong and clear, despite his discomfort. He hadn't expected to be having this kind of conversation tonight. Neither of them had been expecting it._

_Elara raises her eyebrows at him and Gloss shifts uncomfortably beneath her sharp gaze._

"_Who else would it be for?" she questions, crossing her arms._

_Gloss just rolls his eyes at her and mutters, "Don't be like that, Elara. How should I know what you do back in District 5?" He doesn't say anything more, but the true nature of his words hangs in the spaces between them like solar flares ricocheting through the darkness. It isn't a question about what she does, after all, but who she does it with._

_Her mouth drops open. This time, her laugh is incredulous._

"_You thought I bought this for someone else?" she demands, and Gloss's jaw clenches down in a sure sign of his discomfort. He has utterly no idea what to say to her question, or what he might do to smooth this situation out. And yet – a part of him does want to know if she spends time with other men back in District 5 when their time in the Capitol is over. Does she look for comfort elsewhere, when she cannot get it from him? That is, after all, what had brought them together in the first place – an endless search for something that might make their lives seem a little less gray._

_Squaring his shoulders and preparing for the worst, Gloss catches her eye and asks, "So there is no one back in District 5?"_

_He does, admittedly, feel a little silly for asking. He isn't sure if he has any right to, after all. He isn't sure what it even is between them, or why he feels so possessive of her or why he keeps coming back to her arms. Sometimes, when he's feeling very sentimental, he thinks there is something that connects them together as if they are two atoms bound together in some eternal race, forever circling the other just as timelessly as the earth orbits the sun._

_He does want to know the answer though, with a desperation that claws through him insistently. A woman like her would have plenty of men after her. She's not only pretty to look at, with all her lines and angles, but she also has this magnetic spark that he finds utterly enchanting; a certain way about her that is addicting to him. Surely, if he is as taken by Elara Winston as he is, then others would be too?_

_Elara just laughs at him. Her eyes aren't as sharp as they'd been moments before. In fact, Gloss might even claim that they seem almost soft now, as if she thinks he's the most ridiculous man in the world and it's endearing to her._

_She shakes her head at him and replies, "There's no one in District 5."_

_The moment the words are uttered, Gloss's gaze darts away as if he's embarrassed for having asked in the first place. He clears his throat._

"_Good," is all he says, glancing over at Elara cautiously, like he's waiting for her to start laughing at him. It isn't like he owns her. They aren't together. He will never be able to truly call her his in any way that matters._

_Elara just eyes him shrewdly and suddenly drawls, "I thought you were getting us drinks."_

_He scratches his neck and mumbles, "I was." Then, giving her a reproachful look, he ducks out of the room again to hunt down the two glasses that he'd left on the living room table._

_Later, when he brings them back to the bedroom, Elara crawls back under the sheets. He hands her a glass and follows. As he's getting comfortable, Elara slowly murmurs, "I can bring the sweater back if you don't want it, Gloss."_

_He turns to look at her, pausing in the process of fixing the pillows. She isn't looking at him. Instead, her eyes are turned to the blanket that's strewn over her legs, both of which are curled up beneath her body as she leans against the headboard. When he doesn't immediately answer, she snorts and adds, "I don't even know what came over me. Buying you a gift…you must think I'm ridiculous."_

_Gloss hums in agreement, and Elara glowers at him. He chuckles at the look and turns to face her, edging closer and throwing an arm over the back of the headboard as he murmurs, "I…like that you thought of me."_

_He wonders if that sort of honesty will come back to bite him. After all, what he and Elara has…it isn't the type of relationship that allows for such thoughtful acts. It's supposed to be casual sex, but…well, he knows in his heart that there is nothing truly casual about it. She seems to know too, because a moment later she's grudgingly admitting, "I think of you far more often than I probably should."_

_She doesn't look at him when she says it. Instead, she stares down into her whiskey, as if she thinks it contains all the answers she is searching for. The amber liquid looks darker in the faded light of her bedroom – a room that has borne witness to so many moments between her and the man beside her. It is a sanctuary of sorts. She has never brought any other man to this bed but him._

_Gloss studies her profile for a very long moment. He won't admit it, but his heart flutters a bit at her confession. He is at once poignantly relieved and unconsolably bitter to hear the words. Relieved, because it means that he isn't the only foolish one between the two of them. That she thinks of him as much as he thinks of her, when the distance lurches out across the spaces that separate District 1 and District 5. When the cold brush of loneliness jolts through him so hard that he finds it difficult to breathe._

_Bitter, because there is nothing he can to do to tame the beast that tears cruelly through their connection._

_He exhales slowly and reaches for her hand, twisting their fingers together with a casual idleness that speaks of so much more than mere familiarity. In a quiet voice, he murmurs, "I don't have anything for you, though."_

_Elara laughs. This time, it is a genuine sound, true and clear._

_She glances up at him and turns her body to his, letting him support her weight as she presses her cheek against to chest. She traces his skin with the lightest brush of her fingertips and whispers, "If you want to get me a gift, bring me something from your home." Then, chuckling, she scrunches her nose and murmurs, "But really Gloss, I don't need – "_

_He cuts her off with a kiss, leaning down to press his mouth to hers. The rest of her sentence is muffled and non-existent, but she hardly dares to complain. Instead, she just raises an arm, slips it around his broad shoulders, and kisses him back._

_When he pulls away, he gives her that crooked smile she adores so much and breathes, "Something from my home, huh?"_

_Elara ducks her head against his chest again, grasping his bicep firmly, as if she expects that he may disappear on her. He holds her tighter – a silent message that he has no intention of doing so._

"…_To remember you by, when I start missing you," she whispers very softly, so softly that he hardly even hears her despite their close proximity. He thinks he knows why her words are so stilted and wary, why they are bathed with such dulcet, silent tones. It is because within the entrapments of each wayward syllable is a confession that they have both skirted around for a very long time. And he thinks, in that moment, that it had been very silly for him to make the sort of assumptions he'd had before. It's just that he's not used to wanting someone as much as he wants Elara Winston. He's not used to the stark press of possession that drives through him whenever he thinks of her._

_He exhales hard, horrified when he realizes that his eyes are watering up just so. Sorrow punctuates every breath he draws and makes itself known in the heaviness of his voice when he hoarsely murmurs, "…Something from home, then."_

_He shuffles closer, pressing her tight to his body. And – though Elara hears the unsteady emotions roiling through his voice, she doesn't lift her head. Gloss is not the type of man to showcase his weaknesses in such a way. She grips him harder and lets him pretend to be strong, even though they both know that strength has long since abandoned them._

* * *

The Chariot Parade takes no more than half an hour from start to finish, if even. Snow's speech takes up the majority of it, which they have no choice but to listen to as they wait in their chariots below his podium. The crowds, which had been boisterous and deafening, quiets down when their president assumes the microphone, but Elara turns her attention to the man standing four chariots over.

Honestly, sometimes she's surprised at herself. Her constant craving of him is unsettling at times. Her desire for Gloss is like a tidal wave that never ceases, always cresting the parts of her that should by all rights be barren. She's been a part of the underbelly of Capitol society for so long now that she sometimes wonders how she can feel physical pleasure at all. But then she reminds herself that it isn't just physical pleasure she feels with Gloss. They have long since surpassed such a mundane thing.

Her eyes graze over his figure carefully, not lingering long. She doesn't want to draw attention to herself, especially in front of the president. But even dressed in a far more effeminate manner than usual, Gloss is irresistible to her. It's only been a few weeks since they'd last said goodbye to each other and parted ways yet again, but it hardly matters. All she can think about is peeling away the layers of that gauzy gemstone-studded fabric and revealing the tanned skin that she knows so well.

Her mind is relentless, spinning images at her almost senselessly. Gloss, dragging her into one of the closets and lifting her up with those impressive biceps, muscles roiling as he presses her into the wall and hikes her skirts up – kissing a path of fire over her collar, growling out when she breathily moans for him and shifts her core against the hardening bulge of his –

The chariot beneath her suddenly lurches forward, and Elara barely manages to grab onto Harley's arm before she goes toppling off of it. Harley sends her a confused glance but doesn't complain, and Elara purses her lips because really, she should know better than to have dirty daydreams at a time like this.

It's just that she doesn't know how much longer she'll have. Their time together, which had seemed endless and almost stiflingly vast, circular in the push-and-pull cycle of their affections, now seems like it is slipping from her fingers like granules of sand. A week. That is how much time they have now. Perhaps longer, if they are both lucky, but…

Well, the odds have never been in their favor. Not really.

The crowd's cheering starts up again as the chariots pull into the massive threshold of the Training Center. The hall is crowded with stable hands and escorts, other Victors who are to act as mentors, and stylists. When the District 5 chariot comes to a rolling halt, Harley immediately steps off of it and turns around to assist her. As she reaches for his outstretched hand and maneuvers out of the chariot, several stable hands head over to handle the horses that had pulled them across the stretch.

Harley pats Elara's hand and releases her, sending her a brief nod before walking over to where Chaff is standing with Haymitch and the newest Victors from District 12. Elara watches them for a moment before turning, intent on heading to the District 5 suite and getting out of this dress. The longer she wears it, the more uncomfortable it gets.

However, the moment she turns, she inelegantly runs right into Finnick, who has snuck up behind her. She ends up practically face-planting herself into his chest, much to his eternal amusement – which he makes absolutely no effort to hide.

He bursts into laughter and jokes, "Want a taste of me, do you Elara?"

She gives him an exasperated look and pulls away, glowering down at his body with a discerning eye. He purses his lips and steps back, holding his hands out as if he's modeling himself for her perusal. Elara rolls her eyes at him and mutters, "I don't know why the entirety of Panem is so obsessed with you. You're not _that_ great."

Finnick just snickers. "Well, you're biased. You prefer muscular idiots to intellectuals."

Elara's only response is a dry expression and an equally dry, "…Intellectual? Really?"

Finnick only smirks and lifts up a sugar cube, edging closer to purr, "Want one? They're very sweet." For some reason, his voice sounds like it's wrapped up in innuendos. Elara stares at him, then slowly smirks as well. Two can play his little game.

"…I don't like sugar," she tells him, crossing her arms and leaning against the side of her chariot. Finnick raises his eyebrows at her and slowly pushes the sugar cube onto his tongue, making a show of sucking on it as he stares at her with subtly amused eyes.

"What do you like then?" he wonders, glancing up to a spot across the room with a frankly lurid expression. It doesn't exactly take a genius to figure out what, or who, he's staring at. His smirk widens. "Ah…I forgot. You're biased." He winks at her.

Elara presses back an amused smile.

"…Of course, I think that if you indulged a bit, you might like the results," Finnick adds after a moment of intensely staring at where Gloss no doubt stands across the room. Elara hasn't turned around to look, but she isn't stupid. Finnick isn't interested in her like that, but he does so enjoy teasing Gloss and joking around with Elara whenever he gets the chance. It is a little funny, she has to admit.

Elara tilts her head questionably and prompts, "The results?"

The gorgeous District 4 Victor glances down at her, mouth twitching in amusement. He chuckles a bit and pulls out another sugar cube from some pocket inside the net he's wearing (Elara honestly doesn't want to know). As he holds it out for her, he laughingly tells her, "Making him jealous is so easy. You should see his face right now. He's absolutely seething." Then, edging forward just a bit, Finnick leans over Elara and presses the sugar cube to her lips with a sly smirk. "I'll bet you'd enjoy turning his anger into something else…"

Elara almost pushes him away, but only because –

"First tell me where you pulled that sugar cube from," she demands, and Finnick bursts into laughter all over again.

He dramatically wipes his eyes and snickers, drawling, "Do you _really_ want to know?"

Elara makes a face at him. "On second thought, no, I don't. And if Gloss is as annoyed as you claim, I doubt I need to eat a sugar cube to make him jealous."

Finnick pulls back, lifting a hand to his bare chest and spearing her with a mock-offended look. "You're missing the point. I would hand feed you the sugar cube – "

"You'll do no such thing," the annoyed timbre of Gloss's voice suddenly sounds, and Elara chuckles as she turns to look at him. He glances at her briefly, glowering, before turning narrowed eyes to Finnick.

And, as for Finnick, he just raises an eyebrow and snickers suggestively, "No, I guess if anyone's going to hand feed Elara anything, it'll be you."

Elara feels her cheeks redden at the implication of his words, but Gloss just raises an eyebrow at Finnick and rolls his eyes, turning to grab Elara's arm and pulling her away without bothering to respond. Finnick just smirks and calls, "Have fun!"

Elara groans in embarrassment. Gloss purses his mouth to hide his smile. Despite his annoyance towards Finnick, he does have to admit that Elara's blushing countenance is something he appreciates. He pulls her towards the elevators, but Cashmere stops them before he can get Elara alone, as he's been wanting to do since the moment he'd seen her.

"You look nice," Cashmere says as she approaches the pair.

Elara immediately shoots the District 1 Victors a dry look and mutters something about their lack of vocabulary, to which Gloss playfully nudges her with a wide smile.

"So do you. You pull off the gemstone look better than your brother," Elara says, and Gloss's smile turns into a glower.

Cashmere barks out a laugh, eyeing her brother's bedazzled body with a discerning eye. It's fairly clear that she agrees. Tossing her luxurious mane of blonde hair over her shoulder, Cashmere drawls, "You should've seen his face when he stepped out of his room. He looked like he wanted to rip his stylists' heads off."

Gloss rolls his eyes and pulls Elara to the elevator without gracing his sister with a response. Cashmere goes to follow, but her name is shouted by Enobaria from 2 and she pauses, shooting a glance at the approaching Victor and sighing, "I can't believe she had her teeth filed down. I don't know if I'll be able to stand an alliance with her…"

Mention of alliances makes Elara freeze up a little. Of course it would be natural for District 1 to ally with the other Careers. Such an alliance would be expected. These Games are going to be far more intense than any other. The arena will be full of trained killers, instead of innocent children. Gloss and Cashmere are fearsome on their own, but coupled with Brutus and Enobaria, they're bound to make a lethal team.

To be perfectly frank, Elara does not fit into such plans. She isn't a vicious killer. She won her Games because she was smart enough to set a trap for the final tribute, and had managed to sneak around and stay out of sight until it was down to the last two.

Gloss glances at her with a strange light in his eyes, as if he knows what she's thinking. He turns his gaze to his sister, who is now walking towards Enobaria to embrace her, as if they're old friends even though they hardly talk. He looks like he wants to say something, but when the elevator doors open up and Elara pushes him inside, he forgets his train of thought. It's a little hard to remember anything at all when she's pressing herself against him and tugging his head down to kiss her.

She can worry about alliances later. Right now…

Gloss groans against her mouth and scoops her up, hauling her against him as he blindly reaches for the elevator button. As he presses it, he clenches his fingers into her hair and tilts her head to the side, sinking against her mouth with a hunger that leaves her utterly breathless. When he brings his hand to her side and darts his fingers into the chiffon skirts, Elara smiles against his mouth and moans, "I missed you."

Gloss chuckles. "It's only been a few weeks." He drags her bottom lip between his teeth and skims his hand over her thigh, rubbing circles against the inside of it and opening his eyes to watch her expression melt with desire. God, he loves the sight of it on her, creasing the contours of her face with such exuberant expressiveness.

Elara laughs against him and rubs her body over his, breaking the kiss to bury her face against his neck. The scent of him is familiar and wonderful. She could get lost in it.

"I always miss you, no matter how long it is," she tells him, turning her head to kiss his jaw and shivering into him.

It used to amaze her, how quickly he could rile her up, how easily he could stir the lust within her and bring it to the surface.

There's a soft ping in the elevator, and then suddenly the doors are lurching open and Elara is drawing away from him. The air between them seems to simmer almost – a barely distinguishable fire that threatens to overwhelm them both. The fire is dampened, somewhat, when Elara realizes where they are.

Gloss hooks an arm around her waist and hauls her into the District 1 suite, appearing totally nonchalant even though it's the middle of the day. Everyone else is still downstairs of course, but still. They never meet each other like this, in plain sight.

"Gloss – " Elara begins, sounding as wary as she feels. The dull burn of her desire for him fades, only to be replaced by the startled beat of her own heart as it thunders through her ears. They've been sneaking around the suites of the Training Center for years now, but they rarely do it in broad daylight.

But Gloss just drags her against him, shutting the door with a heavy swing and pressing her against it, shutting her up in the most effective way he knows. He succeeds, for several minutes at least, but Elara is far too logical to allow his distraction to truly sweep her away.

She pushes him back, breaking the kiss with a frown and hissing, "What are you doing? I thought we were going to the roof."

Gloss frowns right back and says in a voice that is far too light, "No one's gonna see us. They're all downstairs. Besides, we're going to die in a matter of days so we might as well enjoy ourselves until then."

Elara stares at him, caught between the edges of nervousness and roiling disgust. Not at him, but at the truth of his words. The sincerity laying behind each one. They are going to die. Or, at least, she is.

He's staring at her so intently that Elara feels the need to turn away from him, afraid that he'll see the bright fear catapulting through her eyes. Suddenly, jumping into bed with him is the last thing on her mind.

Pursing his mouth, Gloss steps forward and quietly says, "Elara…I think we need to talk."

She glances up at him, suddenly feeling very wary about those words. Nothing good ever comes from them, after all, especially when they're going to be discussing life and death. It's funny, how desperately she wants to turn and run from him then. How dearly she wishes that this talk might never happen. Thoughts of alliances burn through her head. She wrings her hands in front of her and swallows tightly. The Reaping, the Parade, the reunion of her friends – none of that feels as real as this does, right now. Suddenly the Games seems to loom up over her, towering like tangled vines in the background of her vision.

Gloss reaches out to take her shoulder, guiding her over to the couch. She doesn't argue, even though she'd like nothing more than to delay this discussion. For surely, she doesn't belong in the Career pack. She is not a lethal killer like Enobaria or Brutus, nor is she a skilled fighter like Gloss or Cashmere. Even if Gloss invited her to join, she doubts the others would agree with the move.

No, no. The reason for this talk is so that Gloss can carefully extricate himself from her before the start of the Games. He'll no doubt tell her that they should stop seeing each other entirely. She's been waiting for this for years now, waiting for him to get tired of their affair. She's always known that it was bound to happen, one day. Perhaps today is that day.

She silently sits down, back straight and chin high, clenching her fingers together in her lap. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Gloss take a seat beside her, leaving a bit of space between them as he angles himself towards her. He hunches over, elbows resting on his knees, and intertwines his fingers in front of him. And then…

"I don't know how I'm gonna do it, protect my sister and you. It's…an impossible feat. There's only one winner," he murmurs, not even noticing the tension in Elara's body as she perches herself on the couch beside him. She stares at the coffee table in front of them and doesn't move. She's afraid that if she does, she might start shaking and not be able to stop.

Gloss sighs. "I'd give my life to save my sister, Elara. And I'd – "

"I understand," she cuts in, sounding tired and wanting very much to return to the District 5 suite. She smiles bitterly and murmurs, "Of course you should save your sister. I would do the same if our roles were reversed."

He looks over at her with an unreadable look in his eyes, though she barely notices. Her gaze hasn't moved from the coffee table. If it was possible, she probably would have burned a hole right through the wood by now.

It's silent for a long moment, until the couch shifts as Gloss moves, reaching for her hands and drawing them into his own. She looks over at him and he quietly murmurs, "You didn't let me finish, Winston."

She blinks. He raises his eyebrows at her expression of confusion, like he thinks she's being ridiculous.

Squeezing her hands, he tells her, "I'd give my life to save Cashmere. But I'd give everything that I am to save you."

Elara stares at him in surprise, not expecting those words. Gloss isn't much of a talker. He prefers action over words. But – every once in a while, he takes her utterly off guard with his words, and she is reminded of his rare talent for saying the right thing in the right moment. When he's in the mood for it, he can be very verbose.

She opens her mouth to respond, but honestly, there isn't really anything to say to that. He's surprised her so much that all she can do is stare at him in silent shock. The corner of his mouth quirks up at her expression. Chuckling, he edges closer to her and draws her against him, pulling her against his body and threading his fingers through her hair in an idle manner.

"Did you honestly think I would abandon you in the arena?" he quietly asks her, voice muffled against her head as she relaxes into him. He scoffs and murmurs, "Cashmere would have my head if I tried."

At this, Elara laughs a little, but it's a stilted sound, just a crash of noise that wavers with emotion. She lifts her head to look at him, catching his eye as she says, "Enobaria and Brutus won't – "

"I don't give a damn about them," he interrupts staunchly, eyes blazing. "All I care about is protecting you and Cash."

Elara pauses, then frowns. "And who's going to protect you?" she quietly wonders, searching his gaze intently. Her fingers twist with his, clutching onto him as if she's afraid of letting him go. As if she thinks that, if she does, he'll disappear entirely on her.

Gloss looks a little unsure for a split second before he covers those feelings with an expression of determined fire. With a stilted smile, he tells her, "You don't have to worry about me."

His response isn't quite good enough for her, but Elara knows that it's probably the best answer she'll get. Gloss isn't the type of man to spill out his heart, and besides, this is the Hunger Games. But just because he doesn't want her worrying about him doesn't mean that she won't. His safety is just as important to her as her own.

Instead of replying, Elara just buries her face against his shoulder and lets him drag her closer. Against the fabric of his shirt, she whispers, "This isn't fair."

None of it is. Their first Games was hell enough. Fighting for their lives in the arena was already more of a nightmare than either of them deserves. And their lives after that, the hotel rooms and the prostitution, the forced compliance of Snow's manipulation, the years of sneaking around behind everyone's backs just to be together in whatever way they could manage for however long they had…

It's never been fair.

Gloss exhales quietly, turning his gaze to the ceiling as he holds her against him, and murmurs, "No. It isn't…"

There isn't anything to say to that, either, so they just let the silence speak for itself.


	26. But, angered, builds up all the more

**Chapter Twenty Six | But, angered, being built up all the more.**

"_Can I go forward when my heart is here?_

_Turn back, dull earth, and find thy center out."_

_2.1, 1-2 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Elara can't even remember how many times she's found herself panting in this bed, coming down from the high that Gloss had just instilled within her. His bedroom is as familiar to her as her own. Blue walls, cherry furniture, gauzy curtains that she knows he hadn't bothered buying himself. It's a small haven that has seen many a night of their affection, from the awkward cadences of its beginnings to the bolder, passionate couplings of its present._

_She buries herself further into his sheets and turns her head to look at him. He's got one knee crooked up while the other leg hangs off the side of the bed. His chest is rising and falling quickly as he catches his breath from their recent activities. When he notices her looking at him, he turns to study her, too. The warmth behind his eyes makes her feel incredibly soft. She smiles at him, feeling luxurious and wanted. There's just something about laying like this that feels so wondrous. It's something she can't explain, really – just knows it to be the truest thing she's ever felt in her life._

_They lay there for a long time, basking in the afterglow of their love. After a while, Gloss pushes himself up the mattress to lean against the headboard. He sighs out, stretching as he tilts his head back. Elara rolls over to face him, closing her eyes as she nestles into the pillow and draws the blankets up her body. He watches her, taking in every curve of her form beneath the sheet._

_Then, chuckling low in his throat, he wonders, "Have I tired you out, Winston?"_

_Against the pillow, Elara smiles. She hums sleepily and murmurs, "Yes."_

_Gloss smiles crookedly. He reaches down to brush away a strand of her hair. As he tucks it behind her ear, he drawls, "Then I guess I did a good job."_

_Elara cracks her eyes open to send him a playfully narrowed look, scoffing, "Your ego is truly a thing of legend, Gloss."_

_He just smirks. She closes her eyes again and snuggles deeper into the bed. They fall silent, listening to the faint sound of raindrops against the window. Gloss hates the rain – it's cold and wet and foreign to him, for it rarely ever rains in District 1 and he loathes the feeling of its droplets against his skin – but he doesn't find it so very disagreeable tonight. It lends a calm, almost surreal element to the atmosphere, bathing the room with a gentle ambiance that seems fitting after the way they had just made love._

_He wonders, quietly, if he should allow himself to think of their actions in such a way. Surely, he hadn't thought of it like this before, in the beginning, when Elara had been nothing more than a source of comfort and a way to stave off the cold cling of loneliness. Yet he doesn't think he can think of their connection any differently, now. They've seen too much of each other's souls for their relationship to be anything but an extension of that._

_He sighs out and listens to Elara breathing. It's calm, almost melodic, and in this moment, after the insanity of the past week, he gravitates to it like he's never done before. It's been a hectic time for them both, with their busy schedules keeping them apart, and this little sliver of serenity is more than just a balm to the most recent wounds inflicted by the Capitol during this visit._

_He doesn't know how long he sits there, but the more time passes, the more he realizes that he's running out of it. It is another layer of their bittersweet connection. Time is always against them, even when they are together. There is always an expiration date to their unions, even though Gloss sometimes thinks that he can see the whole of eternity in the glimmer of her blue eyes._

_It's a conundrum, to be sure, and one as bracing as the cold shift of the midnight breeze that rattles beyond the window._

_Elara is beginning to drift off to sleep when she feels him slip something around her neck. It's just the lightest brush of his fingertips – the brief chill of cool metal before it warms against her skin. It pulls her out of the light sleep she's drifting into, catching her attention enough for her to reach up to feel the foreign object that's now laying against her chest._

_Gloss doesn't say a word as her fingers curl around the pendant. He rolls over to face her, studying her every movement with a close gaze, as if he's pressing her reaction to his memory and feeling her out at the same time._

_Her eyes flutter open as her fingertips alight upon the necklace. She seems surprised. She stares at Gloss with eyes that are not so sleepy anymore, as if she's seeing an entirely new side of him. Had they not already seen so very many sides of each other, the look she now gives him might have made him uncomfortable, but he just stares back as if he's expected such a response and is merely waiting for it work itself out._

_She lifts the pendant up to look at it, shifting up a bit so that she can twist the piece in the light. It's smooth to the touch, and surprisingly heavy for something so delicate. But what amazes her most of all is the myriad of color encased within the sheen of what appears to be glass. Crimson, azure, magenta, gold – all glittering up at her from beneath the surface as if it contains within its depths secrets too great to be hidden for very long._

"_Crushed gemstones," Gloss murmurs abruptly, and she looks up to see him watching her very carefully. There's an almost hesitant look on his face. Perhaps it's because he's never given her anything before. Perhaps he's wary about the lines that are being crossed – that had been crossed when she had given him that sweater several months before. Maybe he's afraid of having yet another wall come down between them, or the way he is finding it more and more difficult to allow there to be any walls at all._

_He reaches forward to take the pendant, holding it between his fingers and turning it at different angles. Each angle reveals another color; a kaleidoscope of glimmering hues._

"_It's a technique we use in District 1, where we make glass from the desert sand. The sand is melted at such a high temperature that the individual grains melt together." He smooths his thumb over the surface and smiles wryly as he adds, "Our jewelers put gem dust inside the glass as it's heating up. They make all sorts of jewelry and trinkets. You can find them everywhere back home, on every street corner."_

_She isn't blind to the subtle reminder that his words bring. Of the shard of a promise he had given her months before, when he told her he'd bring her something from his home. It had been a thoughtless request on her part, borne only because he had seemed a little uncomfortable at receiving a gift from her and not giving one in return – another line, half crossed but still existing, until tonight._

_She'd completely forgotten about his promise. It had slipped from her mind like the sand in the desert of his home, lost to separation and time. But for him to make a gesture like this – for him to bring her something that truly is a facet of his world, in so many ways – it is far more than she had ever expected._

_Gloss is a man who lets his actions speak for themselves, but he never takes action needlessly. He does not make gestures like this without reason. It's been years since their fatal first night together; a night that had thrown them into each other's paths for good or bad. Maybe it was fate, maybe just coincidence. Regardless, he has never done anything like this before. It says something that words alone could never hope to say._

_Elara watches as he leans forward to silently press his lips to the pendant. When he lifts his head, he is just inches from her, and she can feel his breath on her skin and the heat of his body and the press of his hand against her collar as he drops the pendant back against it. A smile burgeons over her mouth. She exhales with a short laugh that makes him smile too. It takes her only a moment to wrap her arms around him, and before Gloss can prepare himself, she is pushing him onto his back and following him down, curling her legs around him as her lips seek his._

_He makes a satisfied sound in the back of his throat and drags his hands over her to clench around her ass, pulling her flush into the cradle of his body as their lips move seamlessly together. She doesn't thank him or say anything at all. Words are silly things, really. They are not meant for lovers._

_No – they don't say anything at all as she takes him inside her and they paint the room anew with silent words that come forth as gasps and moans and laughter. That line, too, has been crossed._

* * *

Later that night they lay together, wrapped up in sheets, skin pressed to skin. It's a familiar embrace, made all the more heart wrenching at the thought that it could very well be one of their last. The darkness is nearly absolute, but for the soft light of the alarm clock as it idly spins by. The District 1 suite is as silent as a grave. They've been bundled up together in his room for hours now, ever since Gloss had boldly dragged her inside without a care of being seen. Apparently, he's of the mind that since they're probably going to die anyhow, openly flaunting their relationship is the least of their concerns.

She'd argued a little bit about it, but to be honest, she's never been all that good when it comes to denying him anything. Besides, if they really are going to die, then she wants to have as much of him as she can, while she can.

"I'm worried," she whispers to him through the darkness. Her voice is muffled against his shoulder, where he had pulled her. He's holding her close to him, one arm tight around her waist, the other cushioning her head. They've been silent for a long time, but she knows that he's still awake. His breathing is choppy and uneven, far from the deep restful passiveness of his dreamworld.

When he hears her words, he sighs and edges closer, nestling their bodies together in a tangle of limbs. "Hey," he murmurs, "have a little faith. You're forgetting how much the Capitol loves me."

Elara swallows tightly. A feeling of deep sadness overcomes her. Even in the protective circle of his arms, it's almost overbearing. She cannot imagine a life without him.

"…And you're forgetting how much I need you. Gloss…I don't think I can live without you," she whispers, and cringes a little bit at the way the words come out. She sounds like a needy child, but it's true. He makes her feel as though she's alive, and that is a difficult feat indeed for a Victor. She bites her tongue to prevent any further admissions that might embarrass her, and starts to move back to put some space between them. Gloss doesn't like talking about his feelings, and she doesn't want to make him uncomfortable. Not now.

But – he doesn't let her. His arms loop tight around her waist, hauling her against his chest as if she weighs no more than a feather. When he speaks, his voice is shredded, almost, as if he's struggling with darker emotions that have no place between them. And yet, as always, they find ways to creep up. Like vines, they spread through the spaces of their connection and taint all traces of innocence.

"Promise me that you will," he demands firmly. His tone is outwardly strong, but she detects the hint of shuddering weakness wrapped up in each syllable. It brings tears to her eyes, and she's horrified at that. Elara Winston doesn't cry, least of all over a man. But Gloss isn't just a man. He's so much more.

It's almost amusing, how she had to be Reaped for another Games – had to be forced to face death and a life without him – for her to come to the dire realization that she cannot.

Shaking her head, Elara stubbornly says, "No. I don't want to live in a world where you're not alive."

There's something about the obstinate reply that does something to him. Even through the darkness, she can see the change in his eyes. A certain softness overcomes him. She feels it in the brush of his fingers against her back, hears it in the quiet exhale of his breath. And suddenly, she realizes that he is crying. Gloss Augustine, the strongest man she knows, is in tears.

Elara makes a surprised sound and pushes closer, cupping his face and bringing him against her chest. He practically crushes her into him, pressing his face against her neck as shivers wrack through his body. All she can do is hold him tightly with grasping fingers, knowing that she won't get the chance to for much longer.

She's seen him cry before. Victors are broken things, shadows of their former selves. He isn't exempt from the monsters that lurk just beneath his skin, but this time, it's different. He isn't breaking because of his own nightmares. He's breaking because of hers.

"I'm going to make sure you live," he growls through his tears. Even now, his voice is strong despite his pain. She isn't surprised about that, either.

Elara drags her fingers through his light brown hair and responds, "Save your sister instead. She deserves to live, not me."

She's not sure why she's so adamant about this. She certainly isn't making him feel any better and she knows it. But he also has to know how little point there would be, if she lived and he did not. It would be like throwing his life away, for that's what would happen if he forced victory upon her shoulders. It wouldn't be a victory at all; it would be a curse.

She knows she's being selfish about this. She has Amelia to look after, who is waiting for her back in District 5. But – Amelia is eighteen now, on the cusp of womanhood. She is no longer the needy 10 year old girl that couldn't take care of herself. With time, she will be alright without her older sister.

Heaving himself up with a sudden push, Gloss glares down at her and growls, "For God's sake, Elara, stop being so stubborn for once in your life – "

She lifts herself up too and exclaims, "Would you be able to survive? Tell me the truth, Gloss."

She's not sure she wants to know, really. It's a tricky question, after all. Could he live without her, or is she the only one who feels this way? Has she become the weaker link between them?

He stares at her for a long time, and she thinks she already knows his answer. Silence is telling, especially when it is the response to such a delicate question.

"You'll be fine," she whispers with a nod, and looks away. Her heart clenches. She knows it's not rejection, not really, but it still hurts.

He watches her expression with an exasperated look and staunchly says, "I'd be a wreck without you, Elara. Don't you know that by now?" She glances up at him and he sits up further, shuffling close to her as he mutters, "How about we make a deal?"

She searches his face, wondering where he's going with this. He explains it all when he says, "Let's agree to put Cashmere first, since we'd both be so useless without each other."

Elara's surprised, not because of his selfless desire to see Cashmere survive, but by his willingness to reach an ultimatum with her. She knows it must be hard for him – harder than it is for the rest of them, even. Both his sister and his lover are going into the Games with him, and he can't save them both.

She sighs heavily and loops her arms around his neck, falling into his chest. "We'll save Cashmere, then," she murmurs against him. He pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and exhaling softly against her hair.

They fall silent. There is little else to talk about, and the quiet of the room is somewhat peaceful, if you can forget the fact that they are days away from entering the arena for the second time. Gloss breaks the silence though, when he pulls back to look at her, and she sees his emotions written plainly on his face and in the hazel of his eyes. For once, his barriers are completely gone.

"Elara," he whispers.

She swallows. His eyes flicker to her lips before darting back up. He pauses, and the silence seems to ricochet through them like atoms spinning endlessly together, expanding and growing heavier with every fluttering second. And then…

"…I lov – " he starts to say, but she rushes forward before he can finish, smashing her mouth against his in a desperate effort to halt his words.

She doesn't know why she does it. Maybe it's because it would hurt, hearing those beautiful words being brought to life in such a way, only for them to be ruined when one of them, or both of them, inevitably dies in that arena. Maybe she's always been afraid of hearing him say those words, because in her heart she has always known that they could never come to fruition.

"Don't say it," she pleads against his lips, feeling her eyes prickle with anxious tears. "Please don't say it."

Instead of getting angry, Gloss just snorts, "You must be the only woman alive who doesn't want a man to confess to you."

Elara, slightly surprised by his response, laughs brokenly and presses her lips together in a firm grimace. He sighs, softly reaching up to cup her cheek.

"I do though, Elara," he mumbles.

She feels tears prick at her eyes. She knows. She's known for a long time now.

He studies her expression calmly, despite the way his heart beats wildly in his chest, and whispers, "I never thought I ever would, until I met you."

His voice is so soft that she can barely hear him, and she's only inches away. But she does, and her tears leak out, rolling down her cheeks with angry insistence even as she tries to keep them at bay. Gloss brushes them away and sighs out, coming forward to rest his forehead against hers.

In a very quiet voice, Elara breathes, "I do too. For years now."

His eyes flash up to hers. The smile that catches his lips is tainted by the cruel twist of sorrow that seems to haunt their every movement. She used to think that, maybe, they would one day be rid of that sorrow. That maybe they could be together after all, after Snow had used them to his heart's content and no longer needed their services; once new Victors came along to replace them and buffeted their popularity into far more forgettable levels. Now she knows that those dreams had been wishful thinking, nothing more. She won't even be alive to see her old age, let alone be able to exist in a world like that.

Gloss chuckles haltingly. From the way his eyes gleam with unshed tears of his own, it seems that he is on the same wavelength.

"We've wasted a lot of time," is all he says in response. "We should've had this conversation a long time ago."

Elara smiles brokenly. "It wouldn't have made any difference."

Her reasoning has him shaking his head and whispering, "Still…it would have been nice to know…maybe it would've been less lonely, when we had to part."

She exhales quietly and edges closer, fitting her body against his and breathing, "Or it would've made it even harder."

He brings her closer and doesn't respond. There's no point in thinking too hard about the past. Not now.

They should be far more concerned about their future.

* * *

The next morning dawns too early for Elara's liking. Gloss too, if his tight grasp on her is any indication. When she makes an attempt to sit up after one harried glance at the clock, he merely pulls her back down and practically rolls on top of her, nestling his face into her neck with a mumbled sigh and a groaned, "Don't go."

She might've laughed at the sleepy insistence of his voice, had it been any other morning. But they are not bunkered down in either of their Capitol apartments, and it isn't an interview or a photoshoot that calls them out of bed today. No, this morning, it is something far more serious than even their forced lifestyles at the hands of President Snow.

"It's already eight o'clock," Elara says, pushing him off of her with a force that makes him grunt. He rolls back onto his pillow and cracks his eyes open, giving her a surly glower. She raises an eyebrow at him and reminds him, "We have the initial interviews today, and we're going to be late for training."

She makes no mention of the fact that she's long overstayed her welcome, at least in this place. The nights they spend together in the Training Center, when they're mentoring their tributes and watching innocent children getting killed from behind a screen, never last this far into the morning. They always part ways before the sun can crease the morning sky, always aware of the fact that they cannot be seen together in such a way. That she had slept right through the dawn would normally be disastrous, but…

Well, this time around, everything is different.

Gloss mumbles out a sigh and groans, "Who cares about training? We've already done all that."

She sits up, pushing her back against the headboard of the bed and looking down at him. The sheets have fallen low to his waist, exposing every muscled inch of his back and the curve of his rear. His face is buried into his pillow between the crook of his elbow, body stretched out in a way that makes her yearn for a little extra time. But – time is the one thing they've never had. The one grace they're never been afforded.

With a sigh, she reaches out to drift her fingertips over his shoulder, and murmurs, "This is dangerous."

It's not like it hasn't been said before. The constraints of their relationship have never been easy, nor has it been without consequences. So naturally, Gloss is a little confused by her sudden words.

He raises an eyebrow at her and mumbles, "What is?"

She purses her lips at him. "I shouldn't have stayed this long. Someone might see me leave."

It's true. The dull clinking of pots can be heard from the kitchen unit off the hallway, and she has to walk past it to reach the door of the suite. The inevitability of someone catching sight of her exit is imminent, but Gloss doesn't look very concerned. He just sighs and snuggles back into his pillow, snorting a little bit at all of her constant worrying.

"I already told you it doesn't matter," he says, voice still groggy from sleep. "We're going to die soon anyway. Someone seeing us together is the _last_ of our concerns."

She knows he's right – she just wishes it didn't have to be like this. In a way, she wishes they could go back to the way things had been before, when they had to sneak around and keep their relationship under wraps. Despite the singular heartache that it had brought to them, at least they knew they'd be alive the next day.

Now, even that knowledge is lost to her. What had once been painstaking but constant now turns to ash in her fingers.

She sighs again. They've been doing that a lot lately. Sighing.

"Still. I should go," she murmurs, and swings her legs over the edge of the bed to collect her clothes from the night before. Gloss doesn't argue, at least not entirely. He sits up too and watches her get dressed, pulling on the shirt he had been only too happy to tear off in the heat of the moment. As she's buttoning it up, he stands too and roots around in the drawers for the training outfit that each tribute is expected to wear.

It's a stretchy fabric that hugs his figure perfectly, blending against his impressive musculature flawlessly. He pulls the clothes on quickly, then looks down at himself with a raised eyebrow and drawls, "It seems different than how I remember it."

The musing quality of his voice makes Elara laugh. She gives him a very thorough look over and smirks, "Well you've filled out since the last time." The innuendo in her voice is obvious, and he gives her a crooked smirk in return.

"Have I?" he murmurs, edging closer to her and sliding his hands over her waist. And really, even though she knows she needs to return to the District 5 suite to don her own training outfit, she doesn't stop him from pulling her against him to press an equally thorough kiss to her mouth. In fact, she doesn't make any attempt to push him away whatsoever.

She is, after all, a selfish creature, made all the more selfish over the course of the last few days.

Smiling against his insistent mouth, Elara kisses him back exuberantly, running her hands against the spandex material that curves over his chest. She presses herself closer to him, wicked thoughts racing through her mind as he lowers his hands to her ass and hauls her against him. His body is a furnace that she falls right into, and when he rolls his hips into hers with just the perfect amount of friction, Elara's head tips back with a low moan.

His mouth immediately follows the curve of her neck, teeth roving over the soft skin with abandon as their bodies fall into a familiar pattern. It's almost funny how easy it is to feel this way for him, to allow this heat to envelope her. Her hips shift into his almost without thought or direction. The growing hardness between his thighs is startlingly apparent through the thin layer of spandex, and she's suddenly craving dark things that whisper promises of more lost time.

Unfortunately, they are interrupted before such things can be further explored.

A loud knock sounds at the door, followed by Cashmere's impatient voice as she calls, "Training starts in an hour. I made an omelet, Gloss. And Elara, you should probably leave before everyone else wakes up."

The two of them immediately break away, their brief passion coming to a stuttering halt as Elara's cheeks fill with red. She's not necessarily embarrassed that Cashmere knows of her presence here. Cashmere isn't an idiot. Still. She feels a tiny shot of horror at the amusement that taints the other woman's voice, and Gloss only makes it worse when he snorts out a laugh at her expense.

"That's what you get for trying to seduce me out of my clothes," he sniffs, and she gapes at him with exasperation. He laughs. "You heard her. Breakfast."

There's nothing in the world that effectively inspires Gloss more than the promise of breakfast. Elara rolls her eyes at him and straightens her clothes, clearing her throat as she gives him one more longing glance that only makes him smirk even wider.

"We'll finish this later," he tells her, and the promise in his voice tells her that he means it, and then some. After all, she knows of one other thing that inspires Gloss to such an extent. She knows it intimately.

She hums and strides to the door with him on her heels, walking out of his room. Before she can make it to the end of the hall, though, his hand slides around her arm and he drags her back into him, pulling her into a kiss that surprises and invigorates her with equal measure. He's insistent and aggressive as he reaches up to capture her face between his hands. His lips move swiftly over hers; one last moment of affection stolen between the hidden templates of their lives. Elara can do nothing but grasp onto his waist and kiss him back, wishing for more time. But time is exactly what they have never had, and even now it slips away from them far too quickly for either of their liking.

"See you at training," Gloss whispers with one last nip to her bottom lip. Then, pulling away, he gives her a piercing glance that makes her long for him all over again. Just one kiss, and he can bring her desire back to the surface as if it had never left. Just one look, and she is lost to him.

She exhales heavily and leans in to kiss his cheek one last time before pulling away. They're lucky that the escorts and stylists are still in their rooms and haven't yet ventured out into the main living quarters. Still, she doesn't want to push said luck.

With one last nod to Cashmere, Elara sweeps from the suite and heads to the elevator, hoping that the District 5 suite is just as empty. She isn't quite that lucky though, for when she steps inside several minutes later, Ignatius is in the kitchen eating a croissant and Harley is sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. When she steps inside, Ignatius looks up in surprise, clearly not expecting to see her. His surprise quickly morphs into a critically raised eyebrow when he notices the fact that she's still wearing her dress from the night before, and he purses his lips.

"Where have you been?" he asks carefully, only for Elara to breeze past him with a shrug.

"As if I would actually tell you," she says on her way to her room. "Stylists are huge gossips."

Ignatius flaps his mouth at her back and exclaims, "That's not true!", but she's already closing her door and working on removing her clothes.

He _humphs_ and mutters to himself, "…Well, I suppose it is."


	27. In this storm that sets my ship astray,

**Chapter Twenty Seven | In this storm that sets my ship astray,**

"_Famine is in thy cheeks,_

_Need an oppression starveth in thy eyes,_

_Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back._

_The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law."_

_5.1, 69-72 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_The first time Elara Winston meets Johanna Mason is during the 71_ _st_ _ Hunger Games. Her first glimpse of the soon to be Victor is not very impressive. Johanna is dressed up like a tree for the Chariot Parades, and Elara thinks it's vaguely amusing. Johanna doesn't really appreciate it._

"_Think it's funny, yeah?" the tribute sneers as she catches sight of Elara's smirk. "You're from 5, right? Well at least I'm not a fucking lightbulb."_

_Those are fighting words, but Elara isn't in the mood to fight with a tribute from a different district. She has other tributes to give her time to. She doesn't grace Johanna Mason with a response as she walks past her on her way to the District 5 chariot, but Johanna just keeps sneering at her until she's gone._

_When Johanna wins, though, Elara can't ignore her. She arrives in District 5 for her Victory Tour six months later, and she hasn't seemed to have lost her sneer since the last time Elara had seen her._

_Elara is accommodating, as she always is to new Victors. It's the new ones that are the most fragile, after all. They don't have more regret or nightmares as the others do – the difference is that the older Victors have learned to get a handle on it, at least in public._

_Johanna Mason doesn't seem to be at all interested on 'getting a handle on it'._

"_Hello, Johanna," Elara greets after the woman has finished with her speech. She doesn't blame the girl for skewering her tributes. It's the Hunger Games and frankly, she gave them a faster death than they would have had otherwise. The rest of her district isn't as forgiving though. They aren't pleased to see the latest Victor, and they make it fairly clear in the deadpan way they receive her._

_Johanna doesn't appear to care at all._

"_Fuck off," she mutters, storming passed Elara on her way to the quarters that she's been given for the evening. The Justice Building of District 5 isn't much to look at, and most of the rooms inside of it are in various states of disrepair. Peeling wallpaper and rotting windowsills are just a few of the components. The beds aren't exactly comfortable either, or so Elara has heard._

_Of course, District 7 isn't much better. She knows from experience._

_Raising her eyebrows at the brusque and frankly rude brush off, Elara glances over at Harley, who just shrugs unhelpfully._

"_New Victors…" he mutters beneath his breath, and heads out of the room without another word. Elara rolls her eyes at him and makes to follow._

_During the feast later that night, she has another chance to speak with Johanna, though to be perfectly honest, she isn't all that interested in cultivating a relationship with someone so cutting. She knows that people have different facets though – different angles to their personalities that are driven forward at different moments. She makes another effort to talk to her despite better judgement. She was that way too, once. Angry at the entire world._

_These days, she finds that she's much more resigned._

"_How do you like District 5?" she asks her as they all dig into a meal of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. The fare is simple, but hearty. Johanna just picks at her plate, though, apparently not hungry._

_She edges a sharp look at Elara and sneers, "It's a total shithole. There's dirt and grime everywhere. Do you even know what street sweepers are?"_

_The major, who is near enough to overhear, stiffens a little in offense. Elara just laughs._

"_Mmm. After a while you start appreciating the dust," she replies, and takes a sip of wine. She isn't being serious of course, and Johanna seems to hate her all the more for it._

"_I don't even know why I have to go on this fucking tour in the first place. As if I give a damn about the other districts," Johanna says, loudly._

_This time, the mayor gives her a reproachful look and sternly tells her, "You'd do well to remember how brutally you killed our tributes. Or have you forgotten already?"_

_They're low words. Low, because Elara knows first hand that you never forget the people you've killed in the arena. Not that she'd killed very many tributes during her Games – she was lucky that she had been able to salvage some of herself in the regard. Johanna is different though. Her innocent act had quickly given way to reveal a merciless fighter who killed anyone in her way, and it just so happened the District 5 was in her way. One doesn't just forget something like that._

_The glare that Johanna sends the mayor is so intense that the man purses his lips and turns back to his meal, apparently deciding not to make a fuss in public. There are cameras around, after all, to capture this moment for the Capitol onlookers who want to watch their new Victor go through the traditions of winning the Hunger Games._

_Elara clears her throat and asks, "Have you settled into your new house yet?"_

_The question makes Johanna turn her glare towards her, next._

"_My entire family is dead. What the fuck do you think?" she demands, and throws her fork down. A moment later, she's getting up from the table with a sneered, "I'm tired. I think I'll turn in for the night."_

_And, before the District 7 escort can stop her (as if she actually could), Johanna storms from the room, leaving the entire table in a state of awkward silence at her parting._

_Elara smiles wanly. "I remember my Victory Tour being pretty exhausting. You'll have to excuse her, Mr. Mayor. I'm sure she's having a…trying time."_

_The escort from 7 sends Elara a grateful glance, but Elara doesn't really notice it. She is far too busy remembering her own Victory Tour several years before, and the districts that she had visited. It really had been exhausting, saying speech after speech and appealing to people that you'll never see again._

_After dinner, Elara also gets up and takes her leave. There isn't much fanfare tonight, now that the Victor who this feast is being held for is not present. Usually, there is dancing and music, but what's the use of all that when Johanna isn't there for the cameras to capture?_

_She's quickly learning that Johanna Mason is not someone who can easily be controlled._

_The last time she sees her during the tour is when Johanna is leaving. Elara is dressed in a long grey coat, wearing a red scarf to ward off the chill of winter. She's standing beside Harley at the station. There are cameras around, documenting Johanna's departure from District 5 as if it's the most interesting thing on television. To the Capitolites, it is._

_Johanna passes Elara on her way to the train, pauses, then says, "See you for the Games next year, then."_

_If Elara is surprised that Johanna has willingly said something to her, she doesn't show it. Instead, she just calmly replies, "Actually, I'll probably see you at the Victory Gala in the Capitol in a few weeks. All the Victors attend."_

_If she notices the flash of relief that douses through Johanna's gaze at the thought of not being totally alone for said Gala, Elara doesn't show that, either. Instead, she just gives her a wry smile and tells her, "Try not to bite anyone's heads off in District 4, yeah?"_

_Johanna Mason just snorts, "Please. That's what I do best."_

_And Elara, well, despite not knowing Johanna all that well, she decides that she very much believes her._

* * *

When Elara finally meanders down to the training room half an hour later, dressed in her own tribute outfit, she isn't quite prepared for the sight that meets her within the large, cavernous room. She stands at the threshold of it for several moments, taking in the almost brutally familiar sight of the stations and the trainers, the sound of blades being thrown and the clang of steel, the murmuring of tributes as they idle in groups and practice their skills together. She feels, for a split second, as if she has traveled back in time, to a moment long swept beneath the rug of other memories that had started the long-winded nightmare she has been embroiled in for eight long years.

She is not the same girl that had stood here in the past, but for a moment, it feels as if she is going into the arena for the first time, and the great encompassing fear of the unknown fills her. At once, she is eighteen again, standing on the threshold of what would become an adulthood filled with torment and manipulation. She is a shaky youth with no idea how she will survive when she has no skills to speak of, or at least none that will help her to take the lives of her enemies. She is Elara Winston, before the celebrity and fame of becoming a Victor had been thrust upon her.

And then, abruptly, she is herself again.

"Hey, Elara – let's have a wrestling match," Johanna shouts, pulling her attention back to reality. She starts, eyes drawn to the woman who has become her unlikely friend in the chaos of her life, and shakes her memories away.

Surely, she is not the only Victor here who has had a similar reenactment of their time in this room. Like Johanna's brusque ways, she decides that perhaps she ought to forcibly push those memories to the side.

"A wrestling match?" she questions, and walks forward, sending Johanna a smirk. "Are you sure you want to embarrass yourself like that?"

Johanna snorts, the corner of her mouth edging up challengingly, and eyes her friend with a knowing look. Elara isn't as lethal as Johanna, and neither of them take her words very seriously.

They head over to the mats in silence. Elara glances around the room, taking note of the way Brutus and Enobaria are hogging the sword station. She sees Beetee and Wiress sitting crosslegged on the floor several stations over, and Mags is quietly making fishhooks while Finnick, unsurprisingly, throws tridents not far away. Some of the Victors, like Chaff and Seeder and Blight, and just standing around doing nothing, joking and laughing as if they haven't a care in the world. As for Gloss and Cashmere, Elara doesn't see them anywhere, but that doesn't mean they're not here. The room is huge, and she's only in one small corner of it.

When they reach the wrestling mats, Johanna kicks her shoes off and starts oiling herself up with a suggestive wink. Elara rolls her eyes at her antics and follows suit.

"Lover boy's not here yet," Johanna tells her with a knowing smirk, lifting her arms overhead to pull her body into a stretch. She rolls her neck as she says, "Guess that means you'll have to hang out with me in the meantime."

Elara sarcastically drawls, "What a terrible thing."

Her friend just smirks. As they step onto the mats and start circling each other, Johanna murmurs, "So you wanna be allies, or what? You're pretty useless with a sword, but I'll take you on anyway."

In return, Elara snarks, "Your innocent little girl act won't work this time around, Jo. But yeah, I guess. I don't think Gloss would have a problem with – "

"Wait, hold on," Johanna says, holding a hand up as her face contorts into a frown. "You're not seriously thinking of allying with Gloss, are you? Are you stupid?"

Elara pauses in confusion and says, "…Gloss and I are kind of a package deal. We've already talked about it."

Johanna throws her head back with a bark of laughter and tells her, "I get that you and Gloss have a thing, but this is the Hunger Games, Elara. If you ally with him, you're allying with the Career pack, and you'll be Brutus's first target once the tides turn."

Elara goes silent at this, and starts circling Johanna again. Johanna sinks into a crouch and does the same, eyeing her friend shrewdly as she lunges forward in an attempt to tackle her. Johanna darts back at the last second, but Elara is ready for the move and angles her body to the side, spinning around to regain her momentum. The circle continues, puckered with brief lunges as their conversation slowly meanders forward.

"…I'm not abandoning him in the arena, Jo," Elara murmurs, twirling out of Johanna's arms as she tries to put her in a headlock.

Johanna grunts and, as she lunges again and throws her fist forward, says, "What if _he_ abandons _you?_ Alliances with Careers are bound to fail."

Elara catches her fist and throws her off, stumbling back a bit as she does. "It's different this time around."

She catches another punch coming toward her, but fails to account for the way Johanna's other fist hooks low and pommels into her abdomen. The impact of it sends her back a few steps. She gasps, throws Johanna a glower, and shakes herself off before another punch can be landed on her.

Meanwhile, Johanna snorts and mutters, "You're right, everything _is_ different this time around."

There's something strange in the cadence of Johanna's words and the emotion that flickers past her face as she stares at Elara. For some explicable reason, Johanna straightens up and just stands there, studying her friend with a solemnity that looks strange on her normally reckless countenance. In response, Elara straightens out too, peering back at her in confusion.

"…Do me a favor and talk to Haymitch as soon as you can," Johanna suddenly says, changing topics so abruptly that Elara feels lost. She furrows her eyebrows at her, but Johanna only rolls her shoulders and says, "If you ally yourselves with the Careers, we won't be able to save you. Just know that."

If anything, Elara's confusion skyrockets with that last addition, but she doesn't have any time to ask what Johanna's meaning is before Johanna is suddenly barreling into her and throwing her onto her back. Elara hits the ground with a heaving grunt and glares at Johanna, who smirks down at her victoriously.

"You cheated," Elara mutters, pushing her off with a fierce shove that sends Johanna rolling to the side. The petulant words don't exactly help her cause…or her dignity.

Johanna barks in laughter and sits up, eyes still oddly serious despite the way her lips are set in that impetuous smile.

"Don't be such a baby," is all she says in reply, and stands up to put her shoes back on.

Elara just grumbles to herself, head spinning from both her reeling defeat as well as the confusing warning that she had just been given.

* * *

She's at the knife throwing section when she sees Gloss again, though at first, she's entirely distracted at the way she can't seem to grasp the correct maneuvering of this particular art. She's not a Career; she hasn't been trained with weapons. Her area of expertise is electricity, which isn't exactly something she can easily show off, nor is it as physically impressive as being able to throw a blade or a trident. So she's a little distracted at her own failures when he comes ambling over to her.

She's so distracted, in fact, that she jumps in surprise when he suddenly drawls, "You're holding it wrong."

Completely caught off guard, she twists the knife she's holding and probably would have ended up cutting herself had he not intercepted it and grabbed the hilt before it could pierce the skin of her wrist.

"Don't sneak up on me like that!" she says, turning around to glower at him. Gloss gives her an unimpressed look in response, then proceeds to crowd in behind her, pressing his hand to her lower back as he adjusts her grip on the hilt.

"Hold it like this," he murmurs, hovering above her and eyeing the target with a discerning glance. His fingers run over hers gently, barely grazing her skin. She swallows, half tempted to call him out on his unnecessarily close guidance, but enjoying his proximity a little too much to bother. His breath fans out over her ear, lips just centimeters away as he says, "It's all in the wrist. You've got to twist it just so…" he edges closer, wrapping his fingers around hers to adjust the strength of her hold, "…almost like caressing a lover, see?"

This time, Elara really can't help but snort. She peers around to give him a raised eyebrow, mirth dancing through her gaze as she chuckles, "A lover? Really?"

Gloss gives her a crooked smirk. "I have first-hand proof that it's in your realm of expertise."

She rolls her eyes at him, and he laughs. Then, apparently deciding that it would be far easier to show her himself, he takes the blade from her hand and steps up beside her, angling his body towards the target as he spins the knife around his fingers with an obvious aura of showmanship. She'll let him get away with showing off…if only because he looks so damned good in that outfit.

"Pay attention," he tells her, noticing with no shortage of amusement how she's eyeing the way his shirt splays out against the muscles of his chest. His mouth fights off a smile, but it shows clearly in the cadence of his eyes anyway.

Elara purses her lips and gestures to the target, drawling, "Go on then, since you're so obsessed with teaching me."

He gives her a look, then, that's a little more serious than it had been moments before. He doesn't comment though. Instead, he merely flips the knife in his hand so that he's loosely holding onto the blade, turns to glance at the target. He barely hesitates for more than a few seconds before he's throwing the knife forcefully into it. It hits dead center with a loud thud, the hilt shuddering from the impact. Elara stares.

Then, Gloss reaches for her shoulder and turns her to him, and with those serious eyes piercing hers, he murmurs, "If I have to teach you how to throw a knife in order to keep you alive, I will, Elara."

She breathes out, eyes moving between his as she searches the recesses of his gaze. Johanna's words come back to her for reasons she does not know, despite the assurance and protection that blazes over his expression. Johanna had a point though. Gloss won't betray her, but Brutus and Enobaria might.

She needs to talk to him about it, needs to come up with a plan – needs to talk to Cashmere, too – but now is not the time. So instead, Elara just heaves a sigh and mutters, "I'm not a fighter, Gloss. I'm barely even an electrician."

He stares at her for a long moment, then throws an arm around her shoulders and staunchly replies, "Well, we've got a week to show you the basics."

She just glowers forlornly at the knife that he had thrown so expertly and mumbles, "What fun."

He ignores her sarcastic commentary in favor of nodding to the table laden with more knives. As she sullenly obeys his silent order and goes to collect a few more, he asks her, "What are you good at? Long range or short range? If we can settle for one weapon and hone your skill at it, I'll feel a little better."

Elara shrugs, coming back to stand beside him as she fumbles with another knife. She pretends not to notice the way Gloss eyes it carefully, as if he's preparing himself to catch the blade again.

"The few tributes I killed in my Games were accidental, until the last one, and that was a weapon of my own invention," she tells him.

He hums, corrects her grip a bit, then steps back to let her practice. As she does, he says, "Yeah, I remember that little stunt you pulled with the wires and the lake. Unfortunately that isn't going to help you this time around. There might not be any lakes in this arena."

She throws the knife, but the blade doesn't even come full circle, and the hilt knocks against the target and clatters to the floor.

"…How about we just go around to all the stations and see what you like the best?" Gloss asks as he eyes it.

Elara isn't sure if she should be offended by him already giving up on her knife throwing skills, but to be honest, she doesn't really have the patience to linger here for much longer, so she agrees. Together, they head off to the other weaponry stations, but they don't get very far.

"Better learn some real skills if you wanna run with us," Brutus's voice suddenly gloats, and Elara turns to see him leaning casually against a nearby station, close enough to have heard their conversation. His eyes crease with amusement. He seems to find the thought of Elara joining the Career pack hilarious.

Gloss does not. He sends Brutus an edged look and draws a hand over Elara's lower back, leading her forward in stony silence. Elara honestly doesn't know what to do, so she just lets him take control of the situation until he pulls her to a halt the moment Brutus disappears from their line of vision.

"You've got a target on your back," Gloss mutters with a deep frown, eyeing the stations around them. He pulls his gaze to hers and stares at her for a long moment, shoulders tense, before saying, "Swords. Come on."

He gestures forward and strides off down the line of trainers and stations and Victors, intent on finding the sword station. Elara just sighs and trudges after him, half tempted to just go her own way but not wanting to annoy him when they could very well have only a week left. So she lets Gloss train her in whatever weapon he sees fit throughout the day, avoids Brutus as much as possible, and jokes around with Cashmere when they head over to lunch. She tries not to think about how, in just a few days, this crowd that laughs and smiles at each other will turn into killers, intent on stripping life away from the very people they call friends.

It's not easy to forget though.


	28. I've lost the north star's guiding ray

**Chapter Twenty Eight | I've lost the north star's guiding silver ray.**

"_Thou talk'st of nothing._

_True, I talk of dreams."_

_1.4, 96-97 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Elara has had her fair share of nightmares over the years. They are a constant source of terror for her – memories that she would rather forget entirely. She has them all the time in District 5, when the nights are long and cold and she is alone. When she's with Gloss in the Capitol, those nightmares seem to vanish completely, as if his presence by her side is enough to drive them all away before they have a chance to make themselves known._

_This time, though, not even Gloss's presence can stave away the latest nightmare._

_It starts with the usual blood and terror of her Games. Watching her district partner get skewered in the bloodbath as he's running to join her on the edge of the forest. She stands there, half hidden by the trees, as a spear drives itself right into his back. The tip breaks through his chest. He stumbles, eyes locking with hers, and his mouth opens into a scream that ricochets through her mind as if she's right there all over again, watching the events as if for the first time. He falls face first into the dirt, limbs twitching as he bleeds out. He dies with one hand reaching for her, fingernails digging into the earth._

_Even in her dream she is afraid. She turns and runs into the woods, breathing harried and eyes wild. Canon blasts thunder behind her, shearing through the silence with such booming noise that she flinches each time one goes off. In reality, she makes it into the woods without a problem, but in her dream, she is chased._

_The Careers run after her with swords blazing in the sunlight. Their footsteps are fast and heavy. They tear towards her and she stumbles, falling, falling –_

_Then, suddenly, the scene changes. She is not running, anymore. At least, not physically._

_Hands grope her body, pulling her down a mattress with a force that sends her reeling. She can't stop the touches and she can't block the sound of angry orders that tell her to lay still and stop struggling. The foreign hands pull her legs apart and a weight settles against her frame. She can't get away._

_She wakes up gasping, with tears gathering behind her eyes. The abrupt way she throws herself into a sitting position alerts the man by her side to her plight. Gloss wakes up to the sight of Elara heaving herself out of bed, hardly able to stomach being tangled up in sheets after dreaming about a client._

"_Elara?" he immediately asks, voice groggy from sleep. He rubs his eyes and turns to switch the bedside lamp on. When he turns back, she's struggling to pull on her robe with fumbling fingers._

_He doesn't need to ask what's wrong. Nightmares are common things and she suffers far more than she should. He slowly slides out of bed and approaches her as he would approach a wild animal; hands out in plain sight, movements careful. His voice, too, is soft when he murmurs, "Elara. It's just me. It's just me."_

_She inhales sharply when he sets a hand on her shoulder, but doesn't pull away. Taking this as a good sign, Gloss reaches for her other shoulder and turns her towards him, looking down at her red eyes and disordered form. Her chest is heaving and she looks like she's seconds away from bursting into tears._

_Her eyes lock with his, and then suddenly she's throwing her arms around him and Gloss is sighing out and pulling her tight against him, catching all of her weight as she surrenders herself to his grasp. They sink to the floor._

_He's never thought of himself as being very good at comfort. He's too brusque and hard, too flippant towards the emotions of others. But he thinks he does a pretty good job of it as he smooths his hands over her hair and murmurs quiet things into her ear._

"_Shh…I've got you. It's okay now…" he doesn't even care that it's a lie. Nothing is really okay. If everything was okay, she wouldn't be having nightmares at all. Still, he says the words with conviction, because in a way they are true as well. He'll protect her in whatever way he can. He might not always be there to soothe her dreams away, but he'll do what he can when he is._

_She breathes in shakily and whispers, "I don't usually have nightmares when you're with me…you're usually my cure."_

_At this, Gloss chuckles slightly. He draws back to look at her, thumbing away the tears that have trailed down her cheeks, and says, "And you're mine."_

_Elara gives him the barest hint of a smile. It's not much, but it's there, and it makes him more relieved than he can say._

"_Do you want to talk about it?" he breathes, studying her closely. He never presses her to talk about things she doesn't want to talk about. There are just too many things that fit into that particular category, and sometimes it's better not knowing all the details._

_She just shakes her head. Instead, she leans in, kisses the corner of his mouth and whispers, "Make love to me Gloss."_

_He swallows, exhales with a short laugh, and drawls, "Again?"_

_She hesitates. He pauses. Then…_

"…_I dreamed of my client…and I can still feel his touch on me…" she confesses, and ducks her head as if she's ashamed to ask him to take the memories of another man's touch away from her. She shouldn't be. The moment the words leave her mouth, Gloss is bolstered with a determined need to fill her mind with him, instead._

_He tips her head back and kisses her deeply. She clings to him, but when he tries to guide them back to the bed, Elara grasps onto his shoulders and wildly bursts, "No – right here."_

_He pauses, eyebrows shooting up. Elara's bedroom has a large rug in it, but it's hardly comfortable. He frowns at her and opens his mouth to question her, but Elara just pulls him down and says, "Not the bed, Gloss. Please."_

_Understanding clashes through him. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue any further. Instead he just drags her head back and kisses her again, nestling his body against hers and with a low hum._

_Their movements are not sweet or soothing, despite her plea that he 'makes love to her'. Instead of endearing lovemaking, they sink into each other like a clap of thunder, and before long they're rutting into the floor with abandon._

_Gloss growls, hastily throwing her robe open to grasp at her body. She arches into his touch, spine bending artfully as she presses her hips into his. He thrusts them back down with every shift of his frame, slamming her into the floor again and again without mercy. Normally, after a nightmare like that, he would hesitate in taking her so thoroughly, but…_

_Elara is moaning his name with such breathless passion that some instinctual part of him knows this is what she needs. This wild claiming. This proof that she belongs to him. And he is all too happy to claim her._

_She groans, nails digging into his arms from where she grips him. And then, bursting upward, she pushes him back and climbs into his lap, pulling him back inside of her with a ragged hum. Gloss feels similarly ragged, but he certainly doesn't complain as he loops his arms around her ass and holds her right where she is._

_She leans in and kisses his jaw, bites his ear, sucks on his neck – all the while grinding her hips down on him. He can hardly remember to breathe as she takes him like this. It's far from the demure lovemaking that he had been prepared to give her, before her abrupt requests and endearingly wild sentiments. He clenches down on her ass and grunts, cursing loudly when she scratches her way down his back. Shivers erupt through him at the move. She's doing quite a number on him and he is already straining to keep his end at bay._

"_Elara – fuck, come for me Elara," he growls in her ear, his stubble scratching over her cheek. Their breaths intermingle. She turns her head to kiss him, and he tips his head back to take her kiss as if he's been waiting all the while for it._

"_Come for me," he demands again – orders, even. And she does._

_She presses her face against his hair and unravels, gasping as her orgasm splits through her body. He feels the clench of her muscles around him and the feeling is so intense that he doesn't try to hold himself back any longer. The mere thought of doing so is inconceivable._

_He claims her in every way possible that night._

_They lay on the floor for a long time afterwards, cradled in each other's arms as the nightmares that had plagued her turn small and insubstantial. With Gloss around her, inside her, against her, those dreams amount to very little._

* * *

The first day of training ends on a low note. The Victors seem entirely bored at the prospect of retraining themselves to enter the arena for the second time, and many of them loiter off to their respective suites before the official time comes around for the hall to empty out. Elara, unfortunately, is not one of them, though she'd like nothing more than to take a shower, have dinner, and collapse into bed.

"It's all about the breathing," Gloss tells her as they linger by the archery station. True to his word, he's been pulling her around all day, sometimes with the help of his sister. She's probably been to every single weapon station in the center, trying her hand at everything under the sun. Besides the obvious knives and swords, he's had her test out the tridents (much to Finnick's eternal amusement), axes, spears, staves, crossbows, and now the longbow. She's honestly at her wits end.

Impatient and tired, Elara grumbles, "Let's just face it, Gloss. I'm shit at the bow and that's not going to change."

It's true. She thinks she might be even worse at archery than she is at throwing knives, which is saying quite a lot. Her skills in this department are sorely lacking. She hasn't even managed to hit the target once. Every time she releases an arrow, both the trainer as well as Gloss steps back as if they're afraid she's going to accidentally send it flying towards them. It isn't exactly helping her confidence.

But Gloss is stubborn. He ignores every complaint she gives, and under his tutelage, he drives her hard. She knows that he's just trying to help, but she wonders if it's worth it. She's certainly not the only Victor who has forgotten how to wield a weapon since their Games, but she definitely feels more pathetic than the rest of them. She's been longing to go over and join Chaff and his merry band of uncaring friends for hours now. As far as she knows, they haven't even visited a single station. They've been too busy laughing and joking with each other to bother.

Gloss crosses his arms and staunchly responds, "There's got to be something you're good at." Then, pausing, he clears his throat and says, "…That didn't really come out right."

Elara puts down the bow, much to the trainer's relief. Then, hands on her hips, she turns to give him a hard stare and snarks, "No, I get it. I'm the weak link. I'll probably get myself killed in the bloodbath. Thanks for your vote of confidence."

Aggravated now at her stubbornness, Gloss rolls his eyes. "You know that's not what I meant, Elara. I just want to protect you."

She steps out of the archery range and away from the trainer's hearing, and mutters, "I didn't grow up learning how to fight like you did. I spent nearly all my time in a classroom or an engineering lab learning about wires and control boards, not swinging a sword around."

He eyes her with a strange, contemplative look on his face, and then hooks his hand around her arm to tug her towards the doors. "Let's head back to my room and think this over. We need a better plan of action for tomorrow."

She sighs, but acquiesces. She doesn't want to get into a fight with him, not now.

There's still a few Victors in the training room. Everyone else has already left, and only a couple of people remain. The Morphlings from 6 are still over by the paints, lost in their own world and doubtlessly unaware of the time, and Katniss and Peeta are still lingering around too. Elara glances at them as her and Gloss walk by. Her eyes meet Katniss's very briefly, and she's somewhat taken aback by the hard, cold stare that she receives. The Girl on Fire certainly seems to live up to her reputation.

She follows Gloss to the elevators and they head over to the District 1 suite. When they enter, Cashmere, who is lounging on the couch, looks up at them and raises an eyebrow.

"You know," she says, glancing around to see if the stylists are nearby, "you might want to be a little more careful about your relationship. You probably shouldn't bring Elara here, Gloss."

But Gloss just scoffs and mutters, "Who the fuck cares, at this point?" He says no more on the matter, and Elara just sends Cashmere an exasperated look as he pulls her to his room. Cashmere looks unimpressed, but she doesn't argue. She probably knows, by now, that it won't get her anywhere. Her brother is even more stubborn than she is, and besides, she grudgingly agrees that he does have a point. He isn't the only one who's bitter about this Quarter Quell.

Once the door is closed and they're alone, Gloss goes to pull off his shirt and mutters, "I need a shower first."

He shucks the remainder of his clothes off and kicks them into the corner before striding to the bathroom. When she doesn't follow, he glances over his shoulder at her and quips, "You're welcome to join me."

Elara rolls her eyes at him, but naturally, she doesn't ignore the offer. Mainly because she'd dearly like a shower herself, but there's also a small part of her that's been ogling Gloss's outfit all day and would like nothing more than to put their relationship back onto terms that she is more familiar with. She's pretty useless at fighting, but sex? She is an expert at that.

Once she's pulled her outfit off, she steps into the shower behind him. The first thing she does is to push him into the wall without a word. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it. He only lets out a grunt, and doesn't have time to show any more emotion before she's kissing him furiously.

Wild, almost aggressive passion drives them, catapulting them into each other's arms as the hot water of the shower head sprays over their skin. The enclosed space is quick to turn misty. Steam curls up like fog, layering the atmosphere with a heavy intensity and making their kiss that much bolder.

The entire day – no, the entire week – passes through the contours of that kiss. It is as if they are only kissing to release the fury of their own hearts and the knowledge that their deaths are imminent. Maybe that is the primary thing that drives them now – maybe it is only the very same animalistic intensity that has ruled them so many times before – but there is something else there too, lurking beneath every shift of skin. Something far more desperate than even that.

They say nothing at all as Gloss hikes her leg up and presses himself into her, his back still pressed to the wall as she clings to him. It's heady and tempestuous. Every movement is shaky from their position, but they do not try to alter the direction of this current. Elara's hips shutter into his of their own accord, dominating him in a way she rarely does. Each crest of her body thunders him further into the wall, and he holds her up with strong hands, so powerful that he's sure he's leaving bruises in his wake. He can't bring himself to care all that much, and neither, it seems, can she.

She buries her face into the crevice of his neck and shoulder, biting her lip hard to keep her moans from spilling out in her effort to remain silent. The secret of their affair has ever been a tightly bound thing, kept close to their chests and not spoken of. Sometimes their relationship feels more like a curse, but Elara wouldn't have it any other way. His presence in her life is the one thing that keeps her going.

Perhaps it is the tight coil of restriction that has always plagued them that holds their moans back, or perhaps it is merely the atmosphere itself. The foggy crease of steam, the pellets of water that sprays down on them from above, the understanding that thunders through them like bullets…it all lends itself to the spaces between them, breaching them apart even as they tumble together into bliss.

And when it is all over, and she slips down his body as if she is boneless, he grapples her against him so tightly that she wonders if he's trying to press her to his very soul. There is a shaking in his shoulders – a subtle sign of the fear that is shared between them, that this may be the very last time that they will be together like this. A countdown has been started and it ticks away with every drop of water that suddenly scorches her skin as if they are shards of glass.

"Stay with me tonight," he tells her, not bothering to ask. The words are muffled into her skin, but the caress of his lips as he utters them feels poignantly traitorous. She feels as though the words are both a blessing and a curse, and thinks that it is vaguely amusing because so much of their relationship is exactly that.

It is a curse to love him. It has brought her so much pain, and yet –

Loving him is her salvation.

They towel off, strangely industrious in wake of their coupling. They barely look at each other at all, and it is only until they're dressed and sitting next to each other in bed that they come back together, arms tightly bound around the other's body as if they've never left to begin with.

"Brutus is a problem," Gloss says after a short while. His mind is rife with worry, snowballing into an endless barrage of thoughts. He himself is a Career, and he knows exactly what Brutus is thinking. The Victor from 2 sees Elara as a weak link, unworthy of teaming up with them. Whatever friendly, Victor-to-Victor inclination he had towards her in the past is gone. Now, they are both tributes vying for their lives, and if it comes down to it, Brutus will not hesitate to kill her.

Elara is well aware of this. She buries her face against his shoulder and whispers, "I'm not afraid to die. At least…I don't think I am."

The words make him tighten his arm around her. He exhales tightly, jaw clenched. Then, in a voice that is slightly shaking, he tells her, "Don't say that. I don't want to think about it."

She purses her lips, but doesn't argue. Instead, she just sighs, "I'll practice more tomorrow. I think I was half decent at the sword."

He doesn't have the heart to tell her that she really isn't that good. In truth, he thinks she already knows it herself. Elara Winston has a brilliant mind, but she is no fighter. Her victory in the 66th Games was due primarily because she knew how to stay under the radar of the other tributes, and had quick reflexes to dodge anything the Gamemakers threw at her. She killed to defend herself, unlike him.

Back then, his mission was twofold: to save his sister from the horrors that she was experiencing at the hands of the Capitol, and to bring glory to his district. In hindsight, he can clearly see just how brainwashed he'd been. In part, Volunteering for the Games had been a misplaced effort to show his worth, something he's deeply regretted in the years that followed. It's been over ten years since he's been in the arena, but it hasn't gotten any easier, and to be frank, he hasn't forgotten any of the skills that were hammered into him growing up.

Kids in the Career districts are specially trained for the Games, unlike the outer districts. Elara does not have the same skill set that him and Cashmere have, and her sword skill – or there lack of – is a paltry comparison to Brutus's. He is forced to wonder if perhaps it is a good idea after all, keeping her close to him when it also means that she will be close to Brutus and Enobaria. But – the thought of her traipsing through the arena without him at her side as a source of protection galls him even more.

He swallows, pulls her closer, and murmurs, "Yeah…we'll work on sword techniques tomorrow."

In truth, it is a shaky set of words, construed from musings Gloss would rather leave unsaid, but Elara hears his hesitation in the catch of his voice. She can't blame him.

She doesn't say anything in return. Instead, she just lifts her mouth to his and kisses him again, and before long the sheets are mussed up and their limbs are a tangled mess and they're not using words at all.

* * *

The next day during training, Johanna approaches her again. Johanna's presence doesn't come as a surprise to Elara, necessarily. They're friends, after all – or at least, as much as one can be friends with a fellow tribute who will quite possibly attempt to murder you once you enter the arena. Elara chooses not to think about that until she absolutely has to. In all honesty, she doubts she'd be able to kill Johanna. She's not entirely sure if Johanna wouldn't be able to kill her, though.

In any case, it's not surprising that Johanna seeks her out. What _is_ surprising is the serious glint in her eyes when she does, and the words that leave her mouth upon joining Elara at the medicinal plants section.

Gloss is meandering around with Cashmere some ways away, caught up in a conversation that Chaff had dragged them into. Every few seconds, he glances away from the older man with an exasperated look on his face, as if he's slightly aggravated to be a part of a conversation he probably doesn't care about. Elara's not complaining though. She's glad to have a break from swinging a sword.

She's been at it all morning, under Gloss's close supervision. He had practically shooed the trainer away when the man had initially started helping Elara, and hadn't let up until lunch when they were forced to. Her arm is already sore from learning the movements and she's glad for some space away from Gloss's strict training, which is why she's currently sitting cross-legged in a section that has absolutely nothing to do with weapons.

Later, she'll realize that Gloss's absence from her side is precisely why Johanna strides towards her.

"Learn anything useful today?" the Victor from 7 drawls, eyeing Elara with a raised brow. She, like everyone else, had clearly caught onto the way Gloss has been hovering over Elara since training had started. And she, like everyone else, has been a little surprised at the protective way he's expressed himself. If anyone had doubted the bond between them before, there is little question now that whatever Gloss feels is far more genuine than anyone had expected. He wouldn't be spending so much of his time trying to train her otherwise.

Elara shrugs and turns away from the inquisitive gaze, brushing her fingers over a fern and idly recalling both the scientific name for it as well as its medicinal uses.

_Equisetum Arvense. _Helps to stop bleeding when applied to a wound, boosts immunity from infection when ingested, soothes wounds and cuts when used as a crushed poultice.

The intellectual part of her brain soaks up the information like a sponge, fascinated by such knowledge. She's only been at this section for about twenty minutes now, but she's already memorized a good portion of the plants that are displayed. The trainer is passionate about his craft and transfers his passion to her once he realizes that she's not there to just waste his time. It definitely beats learning how to fight, though she's fairly sure that Gloss would appreciate it if she dedicated half as much interest in his training as she does with learning how to classify plants.

She's not a fighter, though, and nothing will change that.

Johanna lets out a grunt as she sits down, knocking a towering plant away from her face without care. Elara glances at her with a chuckle.

"Have you spoken with Haymitch yet?" is the first thing that Johanna asks, much to Elara's surprise. It must show through on her face, because Johanna rolls her eyes and insists, "I told you to talk to him. It's important."

Elara raises an eyebrow at her, looking unimpressed. Haymitch Abernathy doesn't exactly have a stellar reputation, and she really can't imagine why it's so important that she speaks to him. The District 12 Victor is usually either drunk or hungover and rarely makes for good company. Besides, Haymitch is…well, he's _Haymitch_.

Johanna must see these thoughts cross her face too, because she snorts and says, "Just – do it, okay? Like it said, it's – "

"Important, yeah, I got it," Elara cuts in dryly. Johanna looks thoroughly unimpressed.

With another roll of her eyes, the brusque Victor mutters, "I promise it'll be worth your while. If you want to survive the Games, then it's in your best interest."

The words certainly catch Elara's attention in a way that her previous ones did not. With a curious stare, Elara tilts her head and wonders at the cryptic message. Johanna blinks back, her gaze concrete and unyielding.

"…No one survives the Hunger Games," Elara returns slowly, trying to feel her out. It's all very strange. Johanna isn't usually so mysterious. She prefers action over words, and she rarely ever minces her sentences in such a manner. It's definitely confusing.

With an insistent look, Johanna says, "The rules are different this time around. Everything is different." She pauses, then adds, "If I didn't want you to survive, I wouldn't be saying this at all. It's dangerous. You're already in too deep with the Careers and if you screw this up for the rest of us, I'll personally have your head. Understand?"

Elara raises her eyebrows in surprise but nods anyway. She can see the solemnity in Johanna's eyes and hear the honesty in her voice. She's not joking around.

"…I'll talk to him after training," Elara says after a long pause, giving Johanna a sidelong glance. She's still trying to figure it all out, trying to discern the motives that are driving Johanna's cryptic messages. She thinks she might understand something, but it only scratches the surface, and it's born entirely from the idea of being able to survive the arena.

What else could she be talking about, but an organized rebellion?

Elara Winston is smart, and even though she has little idea as to how such a thing would work when the Victors are all trapped in an artificial environment and fighting for their lives, she has a heavy feeling that this is what Johanna is trying to tell her.

She won't know for certain until she hunts down Haymitch, who, now that she considers it, might be just insane enough to become the unsuspecting backbone of such a crazy idea.

At her side, Johanna nods firmly and gets up. She pauses before she takes her leave, though, eyeing Elara with that unyielding gaze for a long moment. Elara gazes back, brows furrowed, eyes glinting with something akin to knowledge, and the two women just stare at each other.

"We should have another wrestling match tomorrow," Johanna says after the long pause that is filled with so many silent words, and gives Elara one last furtive glance before loping off. Elara just sits there and watches her, brows still wrinkled as she idly traces her fingers over the leaf of one of the plants.

Her mother always said that she had a thirst for knowledge unlike anyone she'd ever known. That feeling burgeons up within her now. She'll get to the bottom of this mystery – sooner rather than later – but she's not so naïve as to think that she'll actually survive the Hunger Games. After all, even if she does manage to make it out of the arena…

She stands by what she'd said before: no one survives the Hunger Games.


	29. If fate be cruel I will mark it down,

**Chapter Twenty Nine | If fate be cruel, then I will mark it down,**

"_And, to sink in it, should you burden love –_

_Too great oppression for a tender thing."_

_1.4, 23-24 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

"_Tell me about the desert," she asks him one night. He scoffs quietly and doesn't turn to look at her. He's far too comfortable to move. Pressed into strewn sheets, eyes closed in the dim light of the lone bedside lamp, Gloss is the picture of ease. Elara can't help but look upon the sight of him and all his sun kissed skin on display._

"_It's a whole lot of sand," he grumbles after a moment, and snorts, "You've got weird ideas about pillow talk, Winston."_

_Elara snickers and knees him in the side. The move makes him glance at her, his eyes opening just a sliver to peer over at her form. She's laying on her side facing him, propped up just so on her elbow. When he peruses her bared form and finally locks his gaze with hers, he raises an eyebrow at her as if he's daring her to ask another silly question._

_A few years ago, she might have let that expression get to her, but as it is now…_

"_I'm curious is all. I've never been to District 1. What's it like?" she demands, tilting her head at him._

_Gloss is quick to mutter, "You _have_ been to District 1."_

_She rolls her eyes at him. "Yes, but my Victory Tour hardly counted. I didn't even leave the Justice building."_

_He scoffs again and drawls, "Sand, rocks, cacti. What else do you need to know?"_

_Elara sends him a laugh and edges closer, so that the space between their bodies amounts to mere inches. Gloss isn't one for having deep conversations about their respective lives. He rarely indulges her in any topic that hits too close to home. It is his way of maintaining the barriers between them. He never asks about District 5, Elara's interests, or what she does in her spare time. She never asks about District 1 or his life there. At least, that's how he's tried to keep things between them, but Elara Winston is a stubborn woman and for a long time now, he hasn't bothered reclaiming the pedestal in which he had forced their relationship on previously. Instead, and against his better judgement, he's allowed her to ask her questions as she will. Her curiosity is boundless and his willpower is questionable, concerning her._

"_What happens when there's a sandstorm? You have those, right?" she wonders, curling her fingers into his hair and watching at the way his eyes flutter at the touch. It's endearing to her how easy it is to distract him by just massaging his scalp._

_Gloss narrows his eyes at her but doesn't pull her hands away. It doesn't matter that he knows what she's up to. Elara smirks down at him and he grumbles, "We go inside, you idiot. What else?"_

_Elara hums. She pulls her nails through his hair and he sighs out, just deep enough to make her smile edge up the smallest bit. He notices, of course._

_Rolling his eyes, Gloss mumbles, "Don't you dare tell me I look like a fucking kitten again or you'll regret it, Winston."_

_At this, she bursts into laughter and rolls onto her back, abandoning her place beside him in favor of snickering on the mattress. Gloss chuckles too and lifts himself up on his elbow to look down at her. There's this soft, almost contemplative look in his eyes as he does, as if he is considering something of great magnitude. She doesn't notice it at first because she's too busy laughing, but after a while it's hard not to see it._

_Stretching a bit, Elara studies his expression and murmurs, "Gloss? You okay?"_

_The question seems to snap him out of it. He clears his throat and lays back down. He takes a moment to get comfortable, lifting his arms behind his head and shifting into the mattress. Then he looks over at her, raises an eyebrow, and says, "Come here," as if nothing had even happened. As if he hadn't been caught staring at her with a mixture of amusement and desperate longing._

_Elara doesn't question him. There is a strange lilt to the atmosphere that she doesn't want to force. She's afraid that if she presses too hard, it will all shatter around her like glass splintering from a broken window. So she just edges closer to him, fits her body into his, and lets him lift an arm to pull her flush against him._

_She doesn't make mention of how comfortable and warm it is to lay with him like this. She doesn't say how incredibly beautiful and luxurious it is to be so at ease with another soul. She doesn't tell him that she loves these moments the most, when they merely coexist in calm repose, laying together for the sole and express purpose of being within close proximity to the other's heartbeat._

_He reaches up to tangle his fingers into her hair, and Elara sighs out with a slight laugh when she feels him massage over her scalp in much the same manner as she had done minutes before, to him. And then, in a voice pursed just so with amusement, Gloss tells her, "There are mountains in the distance no matter what direction you look, but you can't see them when you're in the city. Too many skyscrapers in the way. And – the Factory, of course. It makes thousands of luxury items for the Capitol. Even in the dead of night the thing is lit up. The machines are always running, trying to meet the needs of Capitol clientele…"_

_His words are just bitter enough to tell Elara that he's thinking now on his own Capitol clientele, and so she hurries so ask, "What sorts of things does the Factory make?"_

_Gloss hums dryly and shrugs. "Electronics, clothing, kitchen accessories – anything the Capitol wants. The place probably employs half the district, at least. There's a lot of smaller businesses too though – like where I got this."_

_He touches the pendant that is still around Elara's neck, and has been for months now. She never takes it off. Gloss hasn't said anything about it yet, which is why she's a little surprised when he drags his fingers over her neck to touch the gemstoned glass._

_She tilts her head up to face him and wonders, "And where did you get it?"_

"_There's a jeweler near my house – my old house, I mean, not the one in the Victor's Village," he corrects, shifting a bit more to get comfortable and propping a leg up as he does. Elara shifts too, lifting herself up to peer down at him curiously. He huffs at the curious expression and rolls his eyes, "Why do you want to know about District 1?"_

_At the question, Elara chuckles in amusement. She lifts her fingers to caress his jaw and whispers, "I don't want to know about District 1, Gloss. I want to know about you."_

_He stills at the confession, but Elara has long ago stopped feeling the particular burn of nervous embarrassment that comes from opening herself up to him. She merely waits, watching the shades of his expression until he turns to look at her with an emotion that is suspiciously similar to the one he had worn before – all amusement and desperate longing._

"_You already know me," he tells her, and his voice is just a shard._

_She leans down to kiss him. He lets her._

"_Yes," she agrees against his mouth._

_She might not know every detail of his life, or his home, or his childhood. She might not know what it feels like to stand at the edge of the desert and to look upon the vast stretch of sand that pulls her into eternity's grasp. She might not know what paths he walks when he is home, or where he goes when he needs to get out of his house. But –_

_She knows what the press of his soul feels like against hers. She knows the pleasure of having him become a part of her. She knows the plans of his face and the many emotions that play out in his hazel eyes. She knows how to read those emotions, and all the ins and outs of his body and his heart. She knows him in ways she never thought she would, back in the beginning._

_The beginning…they have come a long way since then._

_Gloss sighs against her lips and murmurs, "At night, the desert is beautiful. The stars are so bright it looks like a painting."_

_Elara hums against him and draws her mouth to the edge of his to whisper, "Tell me more…"_

_And – she's a little bit surprised at the way Gloss indulges her that night, spinning such a clear picture of his home and what it's like. They lay there together for hours, talking and laughing about their homes as if they have completely forgotten where they are. And with every laugh and every warm look he sends her, she thinks that perhaps it wouldn't be so very strange after all, having him love her. Perhaps –_

_He already does._

* * *

By the end of the day, Elara is exhausted and sore, but she somehow manages to drag herself up to the District 12 suite anyway. She's not sure what to expect. She doubts she'll be welcomed there, but when she knocks on the door, Haymitch takes one look at her and nods to the elevator.

"Roof," is all he says, glancing back into the suite as if he's making sure no one else sees them. Katniss and Peeta must be in their rooms, because thankfully, the living area is empty.

Elara turns around and walks back to the elevator she's just vacated with Haymitch on her heels. It feels almost as if he's rushing her, as if he knows that speaking to her is dangerous for reasons she can only scratch the surface of at this moment. But those reasons will soon become clearer to her, which she realizes fairly quickly.

"Johanna basically ordered me to talk to you," she says as they walk out onto the rooftop. A quick survey of the place tells her that they're alone, at least as far as she can tell from their current location. It doesn't stop Haymitch from walking around the parameter in a deceptively lazy manner, just to make sure. It doesn't stop her from following him. To an outsider, they appear to be enjoying a bit of fresh air and an evening stroll.

It is only once Haymitch knows for sure that they are alone that he glances over at her and quips, "I gotta admit, Winston – you weren't supposed to be a part of these plans at all."

At this, Elara tilts her head and eyes him suspiciously, hands in her pockets to stave off the slight chill of the night. She's confused and a little wary about this entire situation. The mystery, the caution – it's all rubbing her the wrong way. She knows she should tread carefully.

In a slow voice, she murmurs, "I'm not sure what these plans are, exactly, but I'm starting to think I get the picture."

Haymitch snorts. "Well then, by all means, do tell."

They come to a standstill at the edge of the railing on the far side of the roof, and Elara purses her mouth. "…Whatever's going on, it must be dangerous, which means it's probably rebellious…which means there's a good chance we're all gonna die if it goes wrong."

There's a pause. The silence puckers at them, thrown off by the harsh wind that blows up from the city streets far below. After a moment, Elara adds, "Of course, we'll all die in the arena anyway, so what does it matter?"

Haymitch grunts in agreement. It's a soft sound, drawn out like the wind that rushes over them.

"Let me start with this," he says, turning to face her. His voice is solemn in a way it rarely is, his eyes sharp and wary as he takes her in, as if he doesn't fully trust her and sees no reason to change his stance. The corner of his mouth twists sardonically, and he drawls, "I didn't want to include you at all. You're in too deep with District 1. Frankly I've never understood your relationship with Augustine, but it's pretty obvious that you're in love with him."

She opens her mouth to refute his words – an immediate reaction, thoughtless, born from years of hiding – but Haymitch raises a hand and cuts off her weak attempt with a sarcastic, "That wasn't a question, Elara. You two aren't exactly subtle during the Games season. We all know how you feel about each other."

She glowers surly at him and mutters, "What's your point?"

He rolls his eyes, "My _point_ is that I don't trust you. This entire plan revolves around Katniss, you hear? I don't trust that you won't try to turn it around to save lover boy and his sister."

Silence once again puckers at them. Elara leans onto the railing, peering out into the city streets below. The noise of rushing cars is like a soft symphony this far up. It's peaceful in a way it rarely is, being in the center of this monstrous place. In this city, there have been so many broken moments between her and Gloss which has threatened to pull them apart and has agonized them with the dread of hopelessness. This place is her downfall. It is all of their downfalls. Like dominos, the Victors constantly fall. Usually, they find ways to stand back up again, and the process repeats on a constant loop…but this time around, she fears that the fall will be permanent.

She glances over at Haymitch, only to find that he's staring at her har as if he's trying to understand her; to match her up with the other dominos. She's not sure if he finds what he's searching for.

"If this plan of yours works," she begins, twisting her fingers casually as they hang from the railing, "how many of us will survive?"

Haymitch pushes an elbow against the railing and surveys her quietly, studying the planes of her face and the emotion that sparks through her gaze. He must see something in them, at least, because he seems to answer honestly when he finally says, "We should all survive. Everyone that knows the plan, that is."

The words are carefully construed, and she knows why. He's purposefully excluding the Careers. He's leaving Gloss out of it. She frowns at him, and he frowns right back.

"We can't have _everyone_ in on it, Winston. The Capitol wants blood and death. If they don't get it, they'll be suspicious and our plan won't work."

Elara purses her lips and sighs, "Okay. I want to survive, but I want Gloss and Cashmere to survive too. If you tell me your plan, I'm going to tell them. But – I don't want to see Katniss or Peeta dead either, Haymitch."

His expression twists a bit, as if he's caught between sarcasm and hope. He grunts and stuffs his hands into his pockets, eyeing her carefully as he muses over her words. He already knows that Elara and Gloss are a package deal, and that Cashmere would no doubt be added to it. That was why he didn't want to inform her of the plan, despite the fact that she would probably be willing to help the rebellion should she make it to District 13.

But would Gloss and Cashmere help? Haymitch isn't an idiot. He's gotten to know all the Victors fairly well over the years. He knows that the siblings aren't nearly as Capitol-centric as they appear to be on television. He knows what it's like to put on an act and to pretend to be one way for the cameras. The duo from District 1 is not loyal to the Capitol, but that doesn't mean they would be loyal to District 13.

Still. Elara Winston would be an intriguing addition to their band of misfits. Her IQ is nearly as high as Beetee's. She'd be an asset to 13 in the same way that Beetee would be. Technology is her strength, and she would fill a role that not many people could fill were she to join the rebellion.

Haymitch sighs, rolls his neck back to glance skyward, and mutters, "I've got a feeling I'm going to regret this."

Elara just raises an eyebrow and presses, "Regret what, exactly?"

He peers at her for another long moment before sighing again and edging closer. In a low voice, he murmurs, "Okay, Winston, listen up. I'm only going to explain this once."

She leans in too, and for good or for bad, everything becomes just a little bit clearer.

She heads back down to her floor in a daze. After an hour spent listening to Haymitch's plans and ironing them out with endless questions and inquiries, Elara has a solid understanding of what will be going on in just a few short days. She discovers that half of the Victors are in on the plan, and those are aren't are either Careers or other Victors that Haymitch doesn't trust to keep the secret. He clearly doesn't trust her very much either, but he must see something in her – and in Gloss and Cashmere, by extension – that makes him talk. He tells her everything, or at least most everything. She suspects that there are parts he leaves out, perhaps to protect Katniss and Peeta, but she certainly has the gist of it by the time that hour is up.

Johanna's cryptic words make sense now, as does her warning to her that if Elara screws this up, she'll have her head. She believes it even more now.

It's a solid plan, brought into existence by District 13 – a place that Elara hadn't even known still thrived. According to Haymitch, it does, and its citizens are ready to try their hand at another rebellion after all these years of staying silent in the background.

The history of District 13 is one that everyone is aware of, but the things that Panem has been told about their rebellious neighbors are based entirely on Capitol propaganda. Seventy five years ago, during the Dark Days, District 13 declared open war against the Capitol and sent missiles at them. Soldiers fought and died for a lost cause. Their failure was what brought the Hunger Games into being. In a way, they are at fault for carving out the morbid tradition that now perforates Panem's culture.

Back in school, Elara was taught that the Capitol flattened District 13 into the ground, destroying all remnants of it and obliterating its legacy. The nuclear weapons that the district was known for used this technology to wage the bloodiest war in Panem's recent history. The Capitol, seeing its mistake for entrusting such a job to an outer district, moved its nuclear production to within its own walls, and District 13 faded into darkness, never heard from again.

She's more than a little surprised to hear that District 13 wasn't fully destroyed that day. That, despite the surface of the place being torn to shreds – its buildings collapsed, its infrastructure damaged beyond repair – the people had a backup plan all along. To think that they have been living underground all this time, and that President Snow himself is aware of their continued presence! She's shocked. Dazed.

Her teachers had never taught them about the Armistice. She had never known that the President of Panem, the man who was in power back then, had signed a treaty with 13. Keep out of sight and out of mind, stay alive if you will, but never make trouble again or your end will come swifter than you can draw breath.

She's beginning to realize that there is quite a lot she doesn't know.

As she enters her bedroom and starts slipping out of her jacket, Elara stares at the far wall with that dazed look blazing through her eyes. Her mind is overloaded with information. The logical side of her is trying to come to terms with it all, to categorize these new and startling facts into neatly tiered thoughts. The emotional side of her doesn't want to waste time with all that, but she knows that she needs to think this over thoroughly before she unloads it all on Gloss.

Now that she knows the plans, she can't just leave him out of them. If there's even the smallest chance that they might survive, she won't ignore it. Haymitch knows it and yet he still told her. Johanna knew too. Elara supposes that her affair with Gloss truly isn't that discrete when it comes to the other Victors, who see far more of her than the rest of the Capitol. Still…

She needs to sleep on this. She'd like nothing more than to go find Gloss and curl up in his arms, but she fears that if she does, she'll spill her guts to him thoughtlessly. She knows Gloss well enough by now to realize that she needs to approach this a little more cautiously.

So instead of going to him, Elara takes a hot shower and pulls on a pair of comfortable pajamas before curling up into her bed. She half expects that he'll be there when she steps back into her bedroom, hair tousled and freshly washed, but she's thankful and relieved that he is not. Tonight, she craves silence to think things over – to figure out what she should do and to decide how she might broach this delicate subject with a man who is not quite so delicate.

She doesn't get much sleep. Her mind is too busy, and her heart is too hopeful, to truly surrender to her dreamscapes.

Perhaps it is just as well, because when she does finally succumb to rest, her dreams are filled with images of Gloss turning on her – eyes cutting, body threatening – as he holds his hand around her throat and coldly squeezes the life from her. And she wakes up shivering, because she can't shake the feeling that those dreams hadn't been dreams at all, but a reality that could very well unfold for her if she is not careful.


	30. For we make mountains out of pain

**Chapter Thirty | For mortal minds make mountains out of pain,**

"_Is love a tender thing? It is too rough,_

_Too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn."_

_1.4, 25-26 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_It's rare for him to visit hotel rooms. His schedule in the Capitol revolves around photoshoots and fashion shows. He is the face of numerous brands. His work usually calls him to office buildings and interviews. But – he is a Victor, and even though his sister and him are a Golden Children of the Capitol, he is not above Snow's manipulation, regardless of the form it takes._

_Tonight, the form comes in the shape of long legs and crimson lips; of coquette murmurs in an unfamiliar voice; of the desperation of unwilling intimacy._

_It is a confusing and sickening thing, the way his body reacts to this strange touch. His mind rebels against the fingertips that stoke fire into his skin. He wants to cringe away from the forceful grip that is administered upon him and catches him so off guard. It spins reluctant pleasure into him; presses disconcerting and confusing gratification over every surface of his form. Perhaps, if he could, he would throw that touch away and refuse it altogether, but…_

_He cannot. He is trapped in this room just as surely as if it were his own arena, and even though he longs for the planes of another body and the whispers of another voice, he does nothing to stop the progression of pleasure as it grudgingly takes a hold of him._

_His heart is sickened at the way his body hardens and his breath turns to gasps beneath his client's body. The way she drags herself on top of him and colors the room with her moans makes his ears hurt. And yet – he lets her take him, and he follows through with every whim that she voices and every desire that she wishes to explore._

_It is like operating on another level; plucking himself into two separate halves. One half – the true pieces of him, authentic and unique, good and evil – fades into the backdrop of himself, hidden behind every ragged pant that heaves through his chest. The other – falsified and masked – takes control, brimming up to the surface of his character until he hardly feels like himself at all, but rather a shallow part of a greater whole._

_He is not sure if it is a defense mechanism or something else. He is not even sure if this desire that begins to cling to him is even his own. He has no control and no willpower here. He is but an animal driven by wilder instinct; a trained dog to be ordered from one state of being to the next. The shades of grey that define his current existence hold no weight, for there is no room for them to survive in this room._

"_Do you like this?" his client asks. It is a demurely voiced question, pressed on all sides by airy pleasure. Her nails dig into his chest as she sits above him, and every grinding twist of her hips sets his skin blazing with a fire that he would rather quench, but doesn't._

_He stares up at her, almost impassive to her nudity, and wonders at her question. Does he like it? It is not an easy thing to answer. There are too many conflicting sides of his nature that crash together to give a ready remark. His body would say yes; his heart would not._

_And it is not only his heart that is galled by this forced submission, by this act of violent compulsion. His soul which longs for freedom but never finds it – his mind which blisters with a dozen reasons why he should say no, even if it does hurt this creature's feelings – his entire self, and all his anger and fury at the Capitol and the lifestyle he has lived for what feels like an eternity – it all revolts within him even as he digs his fingers into the woman's hips and hopes his grip is hard enough to bruise._

_His voice is ragged when he bites, "Yes."_

_He is not sure if he is lying or not._

_What a traitorous body! It wants to find release even as the rest of him riots at the grievances of his own pleasure._

_The woman moans at his response and bucks her hips into his. Her eyes are half lidded as she peers down at him, filled with the desperate cling of mutinous passions too wicked for such an intimate act. Every movement is a twist of selfish need. It is a tumultuous greed that centers this coupling; self-indulgence at its finest._

_He used to think that sex is only a momentary act of possession. Perhaps, years ago, he might have cared little for the conflicting turn of his desires. He might not have given them so much weight. It might have been easier to turn a blind eye to this greedy indulgence, and maybe – maybe, he would have even enjoyed it. How strange it is, that he sees intimacy so differently now. It is not merely possession for possession's sake. It is selfish, and indulgent, and greedy; but it is generous too, and sincere, and artful – if only with the right person._

_It feels wrong for him to close his eyes and try to think of this woman as Elara, but he does it anyway. He tries to imagine that it is Elara above him. It is Elara spinning pleasure into his body and dragging him into the depths of it. It is Elara that grips him with such clawing fingers, so overcome as she is by overmastering passion. It is Elara that his hips press into when he finds release and surrenders to it, when he grasps her hips and groans, chest heaving, body blazing –_

_But it is not. It is not._

"_I don't know why everyone's so obsessed with Finnick Odair," the woman murmurs as he's coming down from the high of his orgasm. "You're irresistible. So passionate…"_

_His eyes flutter open. His stomach twists with a sickening lurch. He doesn't look at her, instead keeping his gaze on the far wall, his head turned to the side as he battles down the disgust that churns his stomach into pieces. He can see the woman out of the corner of his eye, sitting atop him and looking down at him with curious, banked satiation. He is still inside of her, but even though he wishes to remove himself from both her arms and her apartment, he does not move._

_He knows how the system works. He knows better than to fight it._

_The woman sighs happily and comes to lie beside him, curling up in the sheets with a purring moan that he's sure is done deliberately on her part. It sparks nothing within him but more revulsion, but he dares not let it show upon his face. When he turns to face her, his expression is carefully blank and undecipherable._

_The woman either doesn't notice or just doesn't care, and she merely blinks back at him and smiles._

"_Have you ever been in love, Gloss?" she asks after a while, twisting her body to glance over at him._

_He balks at the question and laughs cuttingly. Love? His first response is a resolute no. His second is far more honest. What he actually voices, though, is nothing. He does not answer her at all. Why should he? She is just a client. She bought him for physical pleasure, not for pillow talk._

_The thought vividly reminds him of the adamant way Elara had insisted upon getting to know him the more they ended up together in bed. Her stubborn curiosity, her obstinate need to fill the silence between his body and hers…his face must soften minutely, for the woman raises surprised eyebrows and whispers, "…So you have, then."_

_As if burnt, he draws away from her, but she only sits up and reaches out to stop him. He does stop, but only because he knows that he has no control in these rooms. He is but a slave for tonight, bracketed by the whims of a master's orders, whether they are spoken or not._

_The woman grips his upper arm softly and wonders, "Does this woman love you back?"_

_He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, and his mouth fills with the metallic taste of it. It is difficult to batter down his anger at this woman's wayward questions. How dare she ask such a thing – how dare she even speak of love._

_He turns to her and growls, "Why do you care?"_

_The woman looks a little lost at the demanding question, as if she isn't sure of the answer herself. She shrugs. Her hand falls away from him as she slowly says, "I'm not sure…I've never been in love. I wonder what it's like. Is it anything like what we just did?"_

_He is not sure what's worse: the physical touch that he had just been forced to maneuver around, or this line of questions that takes his heart aback with equal measures of yearning and disgust._

"_No," he mutters, and goes to sit on the edge of the mattress. As he slides his boxers back on, he cuts a glance at the woman and haltingly grouses, "It's nothing like what we just did."_

_The woman hums and leans back into the pillows. "What's it like, then? Having sex with someone you love?" She throws him an edged smile and playfully murmurs, "I'm curious."_

_He glares at her and snaps, "I don't fucking know."_

_He makes a quick exit after that. He hopes that he doesn't get in trouble for it later on, but he can't stay in that apartment for a second longer. It is one thing to force his body to feel pleasure; another to force his heart to broach such a deep topic with a client whose only role is to use him. What right does she have to know the answer to such questions? The shallow intimacy of their previous act hardly gives her any merit to delve deeper, and even as he bows his head against the windy streets outside and heads back to his apartment, his anger roils through him._

_Elara is not here, this time, and he is alone. For some reason, he finds himself missing her more than usual as he pours himself a drink and tries to erase that client's touch from his memories. But – it isn't her touch that makes his head spin; it's her words._

_Have he ever been in love? Gloss grits his teeth and scoffs. He doesn't have an answer to that, because he isn't sure if it is truly love that captures him whenever he is with Elara. He doesn't know what love is. In a way, he thinks that it would be a great shame if what he feels is really love, because most of the time it hurts a great deal more than he thinks it should._

* * *

Elara doesn't have time to talk to Gloss until after training the next day, despite him and Cashmere being nearby for the majority of it. She'd like to say that she's improving somewhat on the sword, but she isn't blind to the careful set of her friends' expressions and the subtle glances they share when they think she's not looking. According to two Career Victors who have been training in weaponry since they could walk, her skills are severely lacking. At least, were it concerns fighting.

Perhaps it is Haymitch's abrupt discloser of the plans which leads her to where Beetee and Wiress sit, off to the side as they fiddle with some wire and chat as they kneel in front of the fire making station. She can't help but see the Victors in a new light today, knowing that so many of them are aware of the rebellion that brews beneath this morbid surface. She can't help but gravitate towards the two that might be able to put it into greater perspective for her, simply because out of all the other Victors in this room, Beetee and Wiress share something remarkably similar with Elara Winston: a thirst for knowledge.

Their reputation precedes them. District 3 is a place of scientists and engineers, much like District 5. It is known for the electronics it produces – anything ranging from televisions to computers to all the silly fabricated luxuries that the Capitol adores, like the palm sized PAAD computers and the large wall screens that span the rooms of the Training Center suites. She's gotten to know them well enough over the years, having the same in-bred fascination with technology and the creation of it, so when she approaches them after lunch, she receives calm smiles from them both.

"Elara," Beetee says, a simple greeting that tumbles from his deep voice before he turns back to the fire pit. His expression is concentrated. Like her, he won his games with intellect, and seems to be trying to use it now as well.

She kneels down beside him and nods to Wiress, whose face remains unchanged from her calm and collected demeanor. With a tilt of her head, Elara watches Beetee's continued failed attempts at spinning the stick to create fire, and sarcastically notes, "If only it was as simple as turning on a switch."

The drawling words make Beetee chuckle, though he sounds subtly frustrated as he tries again. With a sigh, he murmurs, "It's all about the movement. Friction generates heat…heat generates fire. In theory."

Elara hums in agreement, resting her chin on her hand. She opens her mouth to respond to him, but another voice cuts in with a brief, "You should move your hands downward."

As one, the three of them all look up to see none other than Katniss Everdeen standing before them, looking just as fierce and indifferent as always. She takes no notice of Elara, instead focusing her gaze on Beetee as she nods to the stick he's holding. She makes a motion with her hands, miming her words as she steps closer. As she goes to kneel down, she adds, "And…faster, too."

Beetee and Wiress seem surprised, at first, that Katniss would come over to them like this. Half the week has gone by, and the first few days of training, she had stayed close to Peeta. Venturing off to talk to the other Victors doesn't seem to be of any interest to her, nor does the thought of making friends or allies. Elara sits back and watches as the girl takes the stick from Beetee to show him how it's done, expertly twisting it between her palms several times in fast motions. Haymitch's plans hit her hard then, as she studies Katniss's face. To think, that this is the heart of the rebellion itself! That Katniss Everdeen, unknowing, unsuspecting of her true purpose, is the one who has been chosen to lead them towards freedom.

The concept of such a life is still ironically out of reach for Elara, despite her having knowledge that she hadn't had yesterday. She is used to pipe dreams. She's had more of them than she can count, and all of them include that beautiful freedom she yearns for so desperately. But even though she grasps the majority of this plan and what it will require of them if it is to succeed, a part of her wonders if she isn't just signing her own death warrant in the process of it. After all, plans sometimes fail, and she hates to think of what will happen if this one does.

Thoughts of Amelia drift through her then, broken abruptly when the stick suddenly begins to smoke, and a small spark catches the leaves that circle it. Wiress gasps, leaning in as she murmurs, "A little brute force – "

"Is always helpful," Beetee finishes seamlessly, grinning up at his district partner before glancing over at his unlikely helper. He pauses, then tells her, "Thank you," in a sincere voice, to which Katniss merely nods.

Wiress's attention is caught, then, somewhere above them. She tilts her head curiously, pausing for a moment before gleefully saying, "By the corner of the table!"

They all glance up to where the Gamemakers are standing above them. Some of them have drinks in their hands, and they are all dressed in crisp suits as they watch the proceedings. It is all a part of the process. The Gamemakers will base their training scores on both the Victors' private sessions as well as what they see of them during training. Wiress's words, though, are a little strange.

Elara leans back and studies the space. It doesn't take her very long to catch sight of the edge of the forcefield as it glimmers slightly like liquid glass. She might not be as well versed as the District 3 Victors when it comes to some things, but she's spent the whole of her youth learning about electricity and how to harness it into various electronics, and she knows immediately what Wiress is referring to before any further explanation is given.

Beetee pushes his glasses up as Katniss wonders, "Plutarch?" Her voice is filled with confusion. It is not surprising. District 12 does not deal with electricity or forcefields.

Elara glances at Katniss and murmurs, "Forcefield."

For the first time since she's joined the small group, Katniss looks at Elara. Her confusion seems to have negated any potentially hostile feelings she may have possessed towards the District 5 Victor, for she merely asks, "…How do you know?"

Elara glances back up to the forcefield and quietly responds, "A shimmering…in the corner there."

Beetee gestures with a finger and asks, "Do you see it?"

It seems to take Katniss a moment, but when she does see it, her eyebrows lift in curiosity. She muses, "It's like glass."

Wiress nods. "To separate us from them…" she trails off, and Katniss glances at her with a slightly chagrined expression.

She purses her lips and confesses, "Probably my fault. I shot an arrow at them last year."

She says it with such stark honesty that Elara chuckles, not being able to stop the sound before it appears. Katniss glances over at her, and they share a look that could almost be described as friendly – if Katniss Everdeen could be described as friendly, that is.

Beetee is still studying the forcefield, and hums, "…Ah, electromagnetic."

Again, Katniss turns to him with a raised eyebrow and asks, "How can you tell?"

The question immediately sends Wiress into a flurry of giggles. She rocks back, chuckling to herself as if Katniss's question had been elementary and basic. Elara rolls her eyes good naturally at her reaction. The question had been a bit rudimentary, but only because they've had schooling in this subject since they could read and write. Beetee isn't much better, chuckling along with Wiress as they giggle over Katniss's clear lack of knowledge concerning electricity.

Elara smiles at their antics and leans in, taking pity on the girl as she gestures to the room at large and murmurs, "Look around you. The holograms, the lights. Every now and then they flicker. Why do you think that is?"

Katniss stares at Elara with a furrowed brow and slowly answers, "Because the forcefield is taking up too much energy."

Elara's mouth twitches into a wider smile, and Beetee adds, "…There's always a flaw in the system." He stares at Katniss with a strange look in his eye – a look that Elara now recognizes. It's clear to her that Beetee is referring to Katniss as the flaw in their own system; the loophole that will pave the way out of their hell.

After a moment, Beetee stands up and him and Wiress head off, but to Elara's surprise, Katniss doesn't go to follow them. Instead, she remains where she is, sitting beside the fire pit with a contemplative look on her face. She's watching Elara with curious eyes.

"…District 5, right?" Katniss asks after a moment, turning the fire stick around her hands as she peers at Elara. "You seem to know as much about electronics as Beetee and Wiress."

Elara raises an eyebrow at her and shrugs, "We have a similar schooling system between districts."

Katniss hums and looks down at the stick. She pauses, looking somewhat conflicted, until Elara sighs and puts her out of her misery.

"Just ask," she tells her, much to Katniss's surprise. The set of the girl's face makes Elara smile in amusement and add, "…I won't bite your head off for it."

There must be something in Elara's voice that sets Katniss at ease, for the girl's shoulders relax. She pauses, chewing on her question for a long moment before slowly beginning, "…You and Gloss. I've heard rumors."

This time, it's Elara's turn to pause. She hadn't exactly expected _that_ particular question. Katniss Everdeen seems to be eternally indifferent to most of the other Victors, with the exception of Elara's own district partner. For her to ask about her strange relationship with Gloss certainly takes her by surprise.

It must show in her face, because Katniss clears her throat and mutters, "You seem really different from each other is all."

Elara snorts and rolls her shoulder back, both agreeing and disagreeing at the same time. She's had that thought so many times over the past eight years that it seems almost redundant, now. Her and Gloss are as different from each other as day is from night, and yet…

And yet.

"He's not the brutal Career he pretends to be," she tells Katniss after a moment. Turning her gaze across the room to where the man himself is standing with his sister, Elara tilts her head and murmurs, "It's all a mask. A front, for the Capitol. We're all a part of the system. We all have our role to play."

The use of Gloss's own words from way back during her Victory Tour makes Elara smile subtly, eyes warming beneath the surface in an almost inexplicable manner. But Katniss sees the way Elara looks at him; the way Elara's eyes soften imperceptibly with feelings that, to Katniss, are as foreign as ever. At least…that is her first thought, until she wonders if those feelings are not quite as foreign as she thinks they are. Peeta flashes through her mind, and the warmth that fills her at the thought of his comforting presence draws something of a parallel between them.

Of course, Peeta is worlds different from Gloss, too.

Elara chuckles a bit and shrugs. "He's far gentler than he looks. With me, anyway."

She doubts she'd be quite as expressive about her relationship with Gloss had it not been fo the fact that in a few short days, they'd be entering the arena again.

Katniss grunts, looking somewhat skeptical of her words, and slowly wonders, "How did it start?" Then she pauses and adds, "I'm just trying to wrap my head around it. It seems…strange. No offense."

Elara laughs, lifting a hand to her mouth and rubbing her thumb over her bottom lip. Her eyes twinkle with amusement, and the sight of it makes Katniss smile too – the smallest hint of her own amusement brimming to the surface. She seems to realize that her line of questions is strange in and of itself.

Once her chuckling dies down, Elara looks at her hands and murmurs, "I'm sure you've heard about some of the Victors. About the way they're…invited to the Capitol several times a year? Like Finnick."

Understanding immediately bolts through Katniss's gaze. Mention of Finnick is all she needs to figure out where Elara is going with this, and her lips abruptly turn down. In a rough voice, she mutters, "He sells himself for secrets. He told me himself."

The discriminating tone of Katniss's voice makes Elara raise her eyebrows at her and drawl, "He doesn't sell himself, Katniss. Snow sells him. It's not his choice."

Elara wouldn't necessarily consider Finnick to be her friend – at least, not in the same way she sees Cashmere as a friend, or even Johanna on her good days. Finnick and her are friendly of course, and they share many commonalities that bridge the gap between them, and his penchant for mischief and humor is well received by her. She likes him and she figures he must like her too, considering how much he teases her. Defending him against Katniss's disillusions is a natural response – as natural as breathing.

Katniss skewers her with a sharp glance, and Elara purses her mouth. "Finnick…he has the tendency of making light of his own suffering, but he does suffer. Even more than I do."

The revelation that her words hint at makes Katniss freeze, peering at her with a careful expression. She doesn't say a word or ask for further clarification. She doesn't really need to. It's obvious what Elara is getting at. It doesn't take a genius to realize what her words allude to. No, it only takes an understanding of the dark underbelly of the Capitol, and the manipulation of their president, which Katniss has her own experience with.

Elara looks back at Gloss and murmurs, "My first night…I was so scared. I was about your age, but I'd never…I'd never been with someone like that. Well, I ran into Gloss, and he offered to…" she breaks off, smiles impishly, and shrugs, "show me the ropes, as it were."

The explanation of her first encounter with Gloss Augustine, Victor from District 1, is certainly not very romantic. Indeed, there were no undertones of romance in their initial meeting, or many that followed afterwards. But there was comfort, and gentleness, and a strange type of intimacy that made her heart pound and her body yearn for him in ways she had never felt before that moment. Sometimes, love doesn't grow from a thunderclap; sometimes, it springs from the ground like a weed clinging to life, and no matter how many times you pull it out, it still finds soil to take root in.

Elara chuckles a bit at Katniss's unimpressed expression. "Neither of us expected that we'd care for each other quite as much as we do. I know he doesn't seem very gentle, or kind, but…he's a good man, even though he doesn't show it to very many people."

Katniss hums. She still seems doubtful, but her eyes are a little clearer, and when she looks at Elara, she seems to see a side of her that she hadn't before.

"I didn't think much of you before," she admits with a shrug. "Mainly because of him."

Elara hums too, staring at Katniss thoughtfully as she murmurs, "Like I said, Katniss, we all have our roles to play. What's yours?"

The Girl on Fire pauses, frowns, and responds, "…I don't know. I doubt I ever will."

But Elara just shakes her head and answers, "Oh, I think you already know – you just haven't been able to put it into words yet. For what it's worth, I'm sorry you and Peeta have to go back into the arena so soon."

She stands up, brushing a few leaves from her training outfit as she glances down at the younger girl, who is looking up at her with a strange expression, as if she's wondering if she's being genuine or not. Elara sighs and murmurs, "It's funny, isn't it? How we naturally gravitate towards people who balance us out. You say that Gloss and I are different, but I'd say that you and Peeta are pretty different too."

They stare at each other for another drawn out moment before Elara quips a smile at her and strides away, leaving the Girl on Fire to her thoughts as she watches her leave.

* * *

"So…you and Everdeen, huh?" Gloss asks her later on, when she joins him at the rope tying station. Her first reaction is to roll her eyes at him.

Instead of responding to that question, Elara leans against the table beside him and watches as he tries to follow the instructions in front of him. His movements are nothing like Finnick's, who she had seen here earlier today. He could tie one of these complicated knots within seconds, but Gloss takes a little longer. The crease of concentration that blazes through his eyes is singularly attractive and amusing at the same time. He's always taken challenges more seriously than most, even if his opponent is a computer screen.

"Bored of the wrestling mats so soon? I was enjoying that, you know," Elara drawls, crossing her arms and smirking. It isn't a lie. She had enjoyed the sight he'd made, but she has to admit that another part of her was slightly terrified of him going up against Brutus – even if it was a 'friendly' spar.

Gloss smirks too, but doesn't look up from the knot. His concentration is commendable, considering the way he immediately quips, "I'm sure we can have our own wrestling match later tonight, if you're interested," without breaking his focus.

Elara presses back a grin, but can't stop the chuckle that escapes her. "Should I steal some of that oil so we can make a proper go of it?" she lightly suggests, though a large part of her is being completely serious. A shiver threatens to overcome her at the thought of massaging that oil into his muscles, and she barely manages to rein it in before it spirals through her.

The suggestion certainly has an interesting effect on him, too. He immediately jerks his head up to stare at her, eyes tight and focused on her face now, rather than the knot. As a result, he ends up missing a step entirely, but he doesn't seem to care all that much. His attention has been properly displaced, and Elara smirks vividly at him.

He growls at her and lowly murmurs, "We still have an hour left of training. Stop putting those kinds of thoughts into my head."

She raises an eyebrow and glances down at him, giving him a rather thorough look over as she asks, "Why, am I…affecting you?"

The look he sends her is answer enough, and when she shivers next, she doesn't succeed in reining it in. Gloss exhales slowly and abandons the knot in front of him in favor of edging closer, and suddenly, he's caging her against the table with an expression blazing with unapologetic interest.

"Oil," he groans, leaning into her and chuckling. "That's really not fair."

She laughs too even asshe automatically leans away from him, feeling a little bit awkward at his proximity. They're in public, after all. Not only are the other Victors nearby, but the Gamemakers have a front row seat above the training room. It's more than a little unnerving to be so close to him in such an obvious way, with such a large audience.

Gloss notices the move and snorts, "Seriously Elara. Let me kiss you."

The words make her start, jerking her head up to stare at him in surprise. Her immediately response is a firm, "No!" as she tries to edge away from him, but alas, it's rather difficult to do when he's got her trapped against the edge of the table. Gloss is a formidable man, and she's caught between conflicting desires as she presses her hands to his chest and tries to shift him away from her.

Can she really be blamed for wanting to drag him closer? Her heart sets the pace, and it always yearns for him. She wonders if it ever won't.

He sighs and leans back, putting a bit more distance between them but not letting her out of the self-imposed cage of his arms. With a purse of his mouth, he murmurs, "A part of me wants to just tell everyone that we're together. I mean, the Games start soon anyway. Why not just be honest at this point?"

Her heart hammers in her chest, and she closes her eyes. "It…I just…it's hard being with you in front of people when we've spent so much time trying to hide our…affair."

The word feels strange. Evidently, Gloss thinks so too. His eyes blaze with amusement. When she looks up at him, she sees it clear as day in the planes of his face.

"…Well, our _affair_ is our business, especially since we're about to die," he reminds her, much to her frustration.

She's frustrated for a number of reasons. One, because he seems so convinced that they will die – that it's an inevitability that they can't avoid. Two, because since talking to Haymitch, suddenly it seems that there might be a chance after all, but she has no idea how to broach the topic with him. She knows she has to though. Soon.

She swallows, and slowly murmurs, "Gloss…" Then, pausing, she takes a deep breath and whispers, "I need to talk to you about something."

The solemn crease of her voice makes him look a little worried. His eyebrows turn down, and he stares at her hard for a long moment before carefully asking, "Is it…the alliance?"

It takes her a moment to realize where his thoughts are. Is he worried about her wanting to break away from him and Cashmere in the arena? She releases a breath and shakes her head. If she has her way, that won't happen.

"No. It's – we need to talk on the roof. Not here," she breathes. It would be far too dangerous to speak about rebellions in the training room, where anyone could overhear them.

His eyebrows turn down even more as he searches her face, but after a moment, Gloss grunts and steps back.

"Alright. Let's go," he says, catching her hand and pulling her towards the doors.

Elara is so surprised that she immediately hisses, _"Now? _But training – "

"Yes now. I doubt anyone cares if we skip out a little early. Besides, I won't be able to concentrate on anything if I stay." He glances at her wryly and quips, "Between your cryptic words and thoughts of oiling you up, you've really thrown me for a loop."

She bites a smile down and chuckles.

"I was actually being serious about the oil," she tells him as they walk to the elevator.

He purses his mouth and clears his throat, giving her a look that makes her entire body explode with heat.

"I'm well aware," he responds, eyeing her with that gaze that could make her want him whenever, however – no matter the pressing knowledge that weighs on her shoulders or the nervousness that edges around her worries. She swallows back the desire to shove him against the door of the elevator, and instead calmly reaches around him to press the button for the roof, giving him a look of her own. He breathes out and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking like he doesn't know exactly what to do with them.

"Elara," he murmurs as the doors slide shut. She looks at him. "…Should I be worried about what you're about to tell me?"

She stares at him for a long moment, eyes locked, before slowly saying, "No. I think…I hope…that you'll be pleased about it."

The words make him freeze, shoulders stiff. He stares at her with something akin to horror, and Elara gives him a confused look. Her nerves are overcome by the sheer terror in his eyes, which she can't claim to have ever seen there before.

Then, abruptly, Gloss blurts, "Are you pregnant?"

Elara chokes, coughing into her arm as she presses herself to the wall of the elevator. She stands there for a moment, just staring at him as she coughs, until her laughter overtakes her shock.

"_Pregnant?"_ she asks, and he glowers at her.

With a haughty sniff, he turns away and straightens his outfit, despite it being skin tight and in no need of straightening. He grunts, "You can't blame me for jumping to that conclusion."

She thinks back to the way she had phrased her words and, after a moment, concedes, "Yeah, I guess that's fair. I'm not pregnant, Gloss."

He sighs in relief and mutters, "Thank God."

The way he says it makes her raise an eyebrow at him. He notices, and sighs.

"We're going back into the arena, Elara," he mumbles, leaning against the wall beside her. "This isn't exactly an ideal time to have a kid." Then, turning his head to look down at her, he allows a smile to flutter over his face as he whispers, "Maybe…if we weren't going back in…if we had the chance to be together…"

Elara swallows tightly and looks down at her hands, twisting them nervously in front of her. He studies her carefully for a long moment before reaching out to take them between his own. Immediately, the sense of protection nearly staggers her, just as it always does when he's nearby. He tilts her chin up and locks his gaze with hers, sending her a silent smile that she finds herself returning, though it's a little watery and nowhere near the strength of her brash smirks. He seems to understand.

"You're not as terrifying as I thought you were, before I got to know you," she tells him softly, staring up at him and twisting her fingers with his as they hang between their bodies. He raises an eyebrow at her and she haltingly chuckles, "You like to pretend you're not a romantic sap, but you totally are."

Gloss purses his lips at her but can't stop his eyes from glimmering with subtle amusement. He chuckles and drags her against him, swinging an arm around her shoulders just as the elevator doors open them up to the roof.

As they step out into the early evening, he murmurs, "Only for you, Winston."


	31. And often in their pity do they sound

**Chapter Thirty One | And often in their pity do they sound**

"_If love be rough with you, be rough with love,_

_Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down."_

_1.4, 27-28 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Gloss is sitting on the edge of the mattress, towel in hand as he dries his hair, which is still damp from the shower, when he hears Elara murmur his name. At first, he thinks she's talking directly to him, and he glances over his shoulder at her. But she's just staring up at the ceiling, her worn nightgown slipping down one shoulder and her hair a reddish halo strewn over the pillow like copper silk gleaming in the morning sunlight. It's early yet, barely midmorning. They both have appointments in the afternoon, but once those are all wrapped up, they'll meet again for dinner. It is their usual cycle here in the Capitol, when the city pulls them apart; a continuous wave that is constantly shifting back and forth, tugging at them endlessly._

_Elara has a client tonight, but Gloss tries not to think about that. His method of clinging to ignorance doesn't always work, but sometimes he finds that it is easier to pretend. It doesn't make it hurt any less, though. Later tonight, when he is alone in this room and she is gone, his mind will play tricks on him. He will feel her phantom touch, the ghost of her warmth beside his body, and it will plague him because he'll know why she is not there. He'll wonder whose arms she's lying in. He'll wonder if she's okay, or if the immorality of their lives is dragging her to rock bottom._

_He can deal with the loneliness of their partings, but the nights where they are both in the Capitol but not together is a thorn that tears at him because he knows that she is with another man and he can't do anything to stop it._

_She murmurs his name again and this time her expression flickers in a strange light as the syllables of it roll from her tongue. In her voice, still creased with sleep, his name sounds like sin itself – all smooth and dry like finely aged whiskey._

_He stares at her for a long moment, pressing all other thoughts away for now, and demands, "What?"_

_The look she sends him is equally as sinful, simply because she looks so irresistible in his bed._

_A faint edge of a smirk captures her mouth with such potent singularity that he can only stare at her, half tempted to return to bed despite his efforts to start the day. He has seen that smirk many times over, in multiple situations. It is mischievous and daring; emboldened like a streak of flame that thunders its way beneath his skin. He knows, instinctively, that he will regret asking her what she's thinking about. When she's smirking like that, all bets are off._

"…_It's such a strange name," she says breezily, and shifts onto her side to face him. Her smirk widens when he raises an eyebrow at her, looking thoroughly unimpressed._

_Regrets – what a funny thing they are._

_With a roll of his eyes, he repeats, "Strange?" He says the word as if he isn't sure if he's okay with the usage of it when it is couple with his name, and grumbles. Then, eyeing her for a bit longer, he purses his mouth and ultimately seems to decide that she isn't worth the effort of responding further, for he just scoffs and goes to stand up._

_Elara watches him with growing amusement and rolls onto her back. As she pushes her arms over her head and stretches in a rather indulgent manner, she murmurs, "District 1 comes up with such odd names for their children. I've never understood it."_

_Gloss just strides over to his dresser and starts riffling through it, dragging out a pair of jeans and a white tee. As he pulls the clothes on, he drawls, "It's just a part of the culture. Stop thinking so hard about it."_

_His nonchalant reasoning makes her chuckle. She watches as he buttons his jeans. Her eyes are studious with close inspection and narrowed in such a way that makes her appear more cat-like than usual. He notices, of course, but merely changes the subject to ask, "What do you want for breakfast?"_

_The question is obvious a distraction. Elara laughs at it and sits up. This time, it is Gloss who watches her as he leans against the dresser and studies the contours of her body in the bright haloing sun. The ratty old sleepshirt she's wearing is one of her favorites, and even though it really should be thrown away by now what with all of its holes and torn seams, he thinks it looks distinctly appealing this morning as it drapes over her frame – ripped seams and all._

_She catches his eye with a twinkling, mischievous smile and purrs, "Scrambled eggs."_

_The response throws him back in time for a split second. Memories of their first morning together filter through his mind. The awkward cadence of a time gone by is dredged to the surface, and he can't stop the corner of his mouth from quirking up. She had been so modestly prudish back then, so unwilling to bare herself to him despite the lavish night they had spent together doing just that. He had made her scrambled eggs upon her request even though he hadn't ever made a girl breakfast before, and he'd spent the morning marveling at her dry humor and the way the sun had turned her hair to spun copper._

_His heart beats to betray him. It shows in his eyes._

_Exhaling with a laugh, Gloss shakes his head at her and pushes off from the dresser. "How about an omelet? I'll make it like they do back in District 1 – hot peppers, salsa. Maybe some chipotle?" He raises his eyebrows at her questioningly and she wrinkles her nose right back as if the suggestion isn't appreciated. But – it's a lie. He can see it in the way her eyes gleam at him as she slides to the edge of the bed._

"_I don't know. I wasn't that impressed with that other dish you made last time," she airily responds in a subtly teasing way._

_Gloss rolls his eyes and petulantly grunts, "That's because they don't have the right peppers in the Capitol. It ruined the recipe. Not my fault."_

_She chuckles and shrugs, "Cooking isn't really your thing anyway, Gloss. You're far too impatient."_

_He gives her a look and immediately shoots back, "Please. I'm way better at it than you are. The only thing you can make is pancakes."_

_Her mouth drops open at the insult (though her eyes twinkle with mirth even as her expression turns haughty) and she scoffs, "Ha! See if I ever make you anything ever again!"_

_She pushes past him on her way to the kitchen, playfully nudging him out of the way, and he laughs and follows her. This playful, easy banter is the result of a hard won battle that they have been in the midst of for years now. It is a constant loop of conflicted feelings that are like the tides; always overlapping the shore over and over, sometimes nearly reaching the sea grass, other times barely covering the shells._

_He's tugging his shirt on when Elara opens the fridge to see what's inside. He hasn't done any grocery shopping for several days now, but there's enough to make breakfast at least. He joins her in her search after a moment, hovering behind her and circling an arm around her waist because he can't help himself. She's so warm and real and alive and he finds that lately, his willpower has been rather weak where it concerns her._

_She pulls out a carton of eggs and a block of cheese. Then, opening the vegetable drawer, she sends him a dubious look over her shoulder and dryly asks, "What goes into this omelet of yours, anyhow?"_

_Gloss just snorts and pushes her out of the way. She raises an eyebrow at him as he pulls out ingredients, and crosses her arms with every addition._

"_Let's see…" he mumbles, rubbing his unshaven jaw in contemplation. He hasn't bothered shaving yet – another breach of willpower, perhaps, that has kept him from leaving the warmth of her arms until absolutely necessary._

_Elara's mouth tilts up at him. She goes to make a pot of coffee while he gathers the ingredients on the counter and retrieves a cutting board. When she returns a minute later, coffee brewing in the background, Gloss pauses to grab a bowl and nods to her, "Eggs." The short order makes her smile wryly._

"_Yes sir," she murmurs, eyes flashing at him. He sends her an amused look in response and chuckles as he starts chopping up a red pepper._

_They work together in companionable silence, broken occasionally when Elara asks him why he's putting jalapenos in, and when Gloss tells her to stop questioning him and complaining about his methods. It's an easy feeling that captures them this morning; as easy as breathing._

_Before long, they are sitting down at the small table by the floor length windows that overlook the city. Beyond the glass the Capitol awaits, but its clawing talons have not yet sunk into the light hearted atmosphere around them. Elara glances up at him as she takes the first bite. She had been exaggerating before, when she said that Gloss isn't a good cook. He doesn't cook often (his impatience truly is a thing of legend), but he has an innate talent in the kitchen that she sometimes teases him for when the mood calls for it. This morning, though, calling him a housewife isn't something she gravitates towards._

"_It's good," she tells him, smiling that mischievous smile from across the table. Gloss studies it for a moment, enjoying the halo of sun that serenades them with a singularly dusky intensity, like musky kisses and the headiness of a desperate touch. Memories of the night before flutter through him within the space of time it takes for his eyes to meet hers. Before he knows it, he is imagining the way she had pressed him into the mattress had unfurled for him in the process. He will never tire of those moments when she decides to take him like that, with all the striking potency of her desire shucked up into the contours of her eyes._

"_Of course it is," he responds after a moment, giving her an imperious look that makes her smile widen. If she sees the passage of his memories being recalled in the shade of his expression, Elara doesn't make mention of it. She just studies him in same lazy, catlike way that she always seems to possess in the mornings, and chuckles._

_Then, reaching for her coffee, Elara tilts her head and wonders, "Why did your parents name you Gloss, anyway?" Her voice is a mixture of soft curiosity and poignant demand._

_He gives her a look and rolls his eyes. "I don't know. They thought it was a good name," he shrugs, barely taken aback at her abrupt question. At this point, her stubborn curiosity is just another aspect of her that he knows a little too well. When he's in a good mood, it's perfectly endearing to him; when he's in a bad mood, it frustrates him like nothing else._

_Elara raises an eyebrow. "Well, why did they name your sister Cashmere?"_

_He raises an eyebrow right back and drawls, "Maybe they liked cashmere."_

_This morning, he's in a good mood, so he'll humor her._

_Elara laughs at his flippant response. "You never thought to ask them?"_

_He shrugs. "It's a common practice in District 1, Winston. You're the only one out of the two of us that thinks it's weird."_

_She hums and takes another bite of the omelet._

_After a moment, Gloss glances at her and asks, "Do you not like my name or something?" The question is really more of a demand. He eyes her as if he's ready to do battle with her, and she snorts._

"_I like your name just fine," she tells him with a shrug._

_He grunts, leaning back in his chair as he mutters, "You should. You moan it often enough."_

_At his petulant voice, Elara bursts into laughter and nudges him under the table. He finds himself smiling before he can stop it, and crosses his arms._

"_When will you be finished for the day?" she asks, sipping at her coffee again._

_He pauses to think, and then says, "Around four." Then, pausing again, he murmurs, "Will I see you tonight?"_

_Elara sends him a humorless smile that is response enough, and returns, "My first client is at eight. We could have dinner, if you want."_

_He barely hears the last sentence, though. He is far too swept up in the rest of her words. Staring at her hard, he repeats, "…First client?"_

_The real inquiry behind the question is obvious; he is asking how many clients she has tonight. It is rare to have more than one, but not unheard of to have several. This time of the year though, when the Games are still months away and the Capitol's demand for the Victors has not yet been stirred…_

_Elara looks away from him and doesn't respond. Her silence is telling._

_He swallows tightly and stands up, collecting their plates. His movements are firm, almost stiff. He isn't happy to hear about her schedule. Suddenly, the lighthearted atmosphere of the morning seems to come crashing down, as if it had been only a fake glamor constructed on a whim. Maybe that's all it was. Maybe that's all it ever is between them._

_Elara watches him from her seat, idly grasping the handle of her coffee mug as he takes the dishes to the sink and starts cleaning up. The room feels tense in a way it hadn't before, back when they were pretending that these sorts of lazy mornings are normal and common. They aren't. She can't remember the last time they had a morning like this one, but she's sure it's been months at least since they had enough time to spare for something so seemingly trivial._

_Gloss is strangely protective of her. Maybe it's because they've been doing this for so long now. He knows her better than anyone else. He knows her scars and her fears; her nightmares and her dreams; the sides of her that are hidden even from herself. He knows how to comfort her when she has a nightmare, and how to make her feel human again when she feels anything but. The ins and the outs of her character are laid out to his eyes, and every cadence of her nature is a force that he has felt a hundred times, by now._

_Sometimes it scares her that he knows her so well. Other times…_

_She stands up and steps over to him, running a hand over his arm. He glances at her, but doesn't move until she draws her body into his and wraps herself into the crevice of his form. And then, sighing, Gloss finally drags her closer. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, until…_

"_How many?"_

_The question is dragged into existence almost reluctantly. He's not sure if he really wants to know, yet something rises up within him and he feels that he must; that if he doesn't have a solid answer, he'll go crazy._

_Elara hesitates. He holds his breath._

"_Two? Three?" he asks, insistent._

_She sighs, "Gloss – "_

"_Just tell me," he interrupts, and she heaves an impatient grumble that gets muffled against his chest._

"_Two. But the second one is a regular and he doesn't like it when I leave before he falls asleep."_

_She can practically see the tension that rises from within him. The details of her clients have him holding her tighter, crushing her to him as if he's afraid that she might float away on an errant wind any moment now. Inside, he is seething._

_A regular. The ones who, for some reason that he just can't understand, have this twisted feeling of ownership towards the Victors they see, as if they think that spending more nights with them means that they are more important somehow._

_Elara curves her arms around his back and sighs, "Should I come here when I'm done, or – "_

"_I'll be waiting," he cuts in, holding her even tighter. His brow is furrowed with the strain of holding his anger back. She doesn't deserve to deal with that side of him right now, not when it isn't her fault that she is forced to do the things she does. She has no say in where she goes or who she sees. If she denied Snow again, the consequences would be even worse than the first time._

_He knows all of this. He's been a Victor for nearly ten years now. He understands the system almost too well. The dark corners of it feed into his nightmares and make him question at his own humanity._

_But sometimes it's so hard._

_Elara doesn't respond. She just turns her face against his shoulder and exhales slowly, breathing in his familiar scent and wondering if they'll ever be allowed to be together in the way she so desperately longs for._

_He's a good man, even though he has a temper that is a sight to behold. When Elara crawls into his bed later that night, freshly showered and stricken by another evening of losing all the sides of herself that she shouldn't have to lose, Gloss takes her into his arms immediately. He presses her to his heart and buries his face against her neck and breathes, "You're back."_

_And she spins her fingers through his hair and hums, exhausted, "I'm back."_

_She wonders if there will ever be a time where they have to part at all._

* * *

Elara isn't entirely sure that she's surprised to hear Gloss's reaction to Haymitch's plans. In fact, if she's being honest with herself, she would say that she isn't surprised at all, and that she's been expecting it.

"Absolutely not," he immediately growls, staring at her with hard, serious eyes. They're leaning against the railing on the far side of the roof. Gloss is grasping the iron with tight fingers, fists flexing as he frowns at her. Concern colors the edges of his gaze, and she knows why. She knows him well enough to understand. That doesn't mean she isn't going to argue about it though. They're both far too stubborn than they have any right to be, sometimes.

She sighs impatiently and murmurs, "Gloss – "

"No, Elara," he swiftly cuts in, turning his whole body to face her. His brows are furrowed and his voice is firm when he hisses, "That's a sure way of getting ourselves killed."

She huffs, "Well according to you, we're going to die either way, so why shouldn't we go with a fight?"

He stares at her. The scrutiny of his gaze is singular in its effect. She shifts a little but she's even more obstinate than he is most days, and she doesn't back down.

Edging closer, she grasps his sleeve. Her fingers circle his forearm, brushing over his skintight training shirt. "If there's a way to survive this, then shouldn't we try? Don't we deserve that? Imagine, Gloss – living in District 13, being free from the Capitol. We'd never have to part ways again, or be manipulated and sold, or have to hide our relationship. We'd be free to do whatever we want."

There must be something in her gaze – some emotion that makes him waver. She sees it in the way his hand loosens from the railing, sees it in the slump of his shoulders and the way he closes his eyes, as if he's imagining the life she describes so easily. As if he yearns for it even more than she does.

She stares at him imploringly, but he just reaches up to scrub at his face and shake his head. In a gruff voice, he hoarsely says, "Freedom? In some underground hellhole miles away from the sun? We're Victors, Elara. How do you know that we wouldn't be watched – even manipulated just like we are here? And if this plan fails, then what?" He opens his eyes to stare at her, and whispers, "You know what Snow does to rebels."

She swallows. He's right, of course, in a way. It isn't as if she hadn't thought about that or considered the many repercussions that would befall them if the rebellion fails. And even if it doesn't, even if it does work, there is no guarantee that the perfect life she envisions will ever come true. She knows well enough not to set her hopes too high. Her life has been far too heavy for such pretty expectations. But – the other side of the coin is even more dismal.

It is like deciding between a rock and a pebble. The rock could hurt you, scratch you, break your bones and make you bleed. But perhaps, perhaps, it might also split open and become a geode, and all the sparkling edges of it would be worthwhile to witness, even though it won't be easy to get to it. But the pebble will always be a pebble, no matter what. When broken, the center of it is exactly the same as the outside.

She slides her hand into his and quietly says, "I know that." Then, setting her shoulders, Elara murmurs, "But at least we'd have a chance. That's more than we've ever had before."

He sighs and squeezes her fingers. His grasp is almost too tight, but she doesn't mind. There's something hurtling through his eyes, catapulting over his face, and it looks an awful lot like fear. Gloss is not the type of person to give his emotions free rein, but right now she can see them clear as day as she looks up at him.

"Explain it to me again. All of it," he demands, and pulls her into his arms. She huddles close to him, grasping his shoulders, and he tucks his face against her hair and breathes her in.

Quietly, she whispers to him, "We team up with Katniss and the others. Haymitch will send us bread to mark the time. Depending on how many loaves we receive, that's how many hours we have left before District 13 will make their move. Beetee is in charge of setting off a small explosion to break apart the arena. I'm not sure how he's going to do it yet, but I'm confident that he'll find a way. And then it's just a matter of getting the trackers out of our arms and getting on board one of the hovercrafts, and we'll be in District 13 by morning."

It's just a brief summary of course, but she's already explained it all in depth to him. Throughout her words, Gloss remains utterly silent, pressed against her. His arms are tight around her waist, and he seems to almost huddle himself over her form as if he's trying to blend them both together. Elara continues talking, mainly about how Katniss is to be the face of the rebellion and is going to rally the districts together. She weaves her words in such a way the Gloss almost feels as though perhaps this plan could work after all. Perhaps they could be free, if only they have the courage to claim it.

Perhaps.

But there are some aspects to this plan that he cannot count on.

When she falls silent and waits for him to speak, he holds her tighter and sighs out. It's a weary sound, heavy and burdened, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. She's heard it before. The weight of the world is often on his shoulders. It's a familiar heaviness, by now.

Finally, after several long minutes of silence, he murmurs, "I'm a Career, Elara. I can't just abandon the Career pack. People would be suspicious."

She frowns and pulls back to stare at him, grasping his shoulders harder until the fabric of his shirt bunches up beneath her fingertips. "If we're doing this, we're doing it together."

He purses his lips at her. "I want that life with you. I want it so much that I would kill for it. But if we all ally with Everdeen's group, half the tributes would be hanging out together for days. That's not how the Games work and you know it. Every Games needs a strong Career pack or the Capitol will get bored."

She sighs at him and insists, "But this Games isn't like any other. _Everything's_ different this time."

He continues on as if he hasn't even heard her and mutters, "Besides, I still don't like this. If this plan fails, every Victor will be a suspect in the eyes of the Capitol. We've managed to sneak around for years now, but if we get caught trying to rebel against the system, that's the end for us. Snow would put a stop to this."

She pauses. She's thought of that too. Last night she hadn't slept at all, for thoughts such as these had been ricocheting through her head endlessly and keeping her awake. She knows this too, but…

"But if we succeeded…" she hedges, tilting her face up to look at him. Her fingers drift around the back of his neck, curling into the dusting of soft hair at the base of his skull. She trembles a little, and he absorbs the shivers into his body as he stares down at her, studying the contours of her expression.

Longing, desire, hope. Those are the things that burn her gaze. But it is the love that shines through all of that which really catches his attention and makes his breath shaky and his body tremble. She absorbs that as well, pulling him closer to brush her lips against his with a yearnful sigh.

Against his mouth, she whispers, "This relationship that we have…it has an expiration date. We both know it. We always talk about being together one day in some future that doesn't exist, but we both know that's never going to happen."

He swallows and pull her closer as if he's physically trying to refute her words with his body alone. As if, by holding onto her so tightly and burning his warmth into her, it might keep them safe from the many dangers that have always circled them like hawks – forever spiraling above their heads, ready to dive at the first moment of weakness. But he knows she's right. He's always known.

She shudders against him and breathes, "Eventually, we'll get so sick of waiting for each other that we'll stop. We'll force ourselves to stop feeling what we do. Maybe we'll even grow to hate each other. It doesn't matter how it ends – one day it will, unless we do something to fight for this."

She pulls back, stares at him with determined eyes, and says in a low, fierce voice, "I'd fight for you, Gloss. I would."

His breath shudders out. He's at once overcome by her words and the ferocity of them. He's so overcome by it all that he just pushes his forehead against hers and drags her back against him, swallowing tightly as he tries to collect the shattered pieces of himself that suddenly seem so apparent to him.

How is it that he deserves her? That she can look past all of the abhorrent parts of him and love him anyway? He thinks she's maybe a little crazy for it, really. No one in their right mind would accept the broken slivers of his soul and not care if his heart is just as shattered, but he's so glad that she does.

"I wish you'd let me say it," he whispers after a long moment, looking down at her with eyes that feel suddenly watery. He wrangles his emotions down as best he can, but he isn't stupid enough to think that she doesn't know what he's feeling – or what he's referring to now.

He wants to tell her he loves her. He thinks it's funny, in a way. The great Gloss Augustine, confessing his love like he's some chivalrous knight who lives and breathes romance. He's the furthest thing from that, and yet the words still crowd along his tongue, waiting to be said, yearning to be given power. The very air seems to draw them forward, suckering them into existence.

Elara just smiles and ducks her head closer to his, lips skimming over his jaw as she breathes, "If we do this and succeed, then we could say whatever we want to, every day."

He sighs. A moment later, he concedes, "I need to think about it. And I need to think about how to tell Cashmere."

Elara looks up at him, hardly daring to hope, and nods. She'll give him time – but he doesn't have a lot of it. The week is already half over. In just a few days, they'll be entering the arena for the second time.

As they loiter there on the rooftop for a while longer, their thoughts converge. Images of what could be threaten to keel them over, displacing them in so many ways – for good, and for bad.

If this plan works, they could have everything they've ever dreamed of at their fingertips. But if it fails, well…

President Snow is not a forgiving man.

* * *

It's almost poetic, how much Gloss has changed since Elara Winston walked into his life. If he's being honest, it isn't just her influence that has changed the course of his fate. He hadn't exactly been a stellar citizen of District 1 before his Games. His was born into a middle class family who could afford the comforts of living in the luxury district, with all the bells and whistles that it allowed. Certainly, in other's eyes, Cashmere and him were seen as arrogant rich kids who took everything for granted. More than once, he had fully lived up to that supposition.

The truth is that Gloss Augustine hadn't known what it meant to truly live until he volunteered for the Hunger Games and was forced to understand. It was only when everything was torn from him – all his dignity, his pride, his freedom – that he realized how lacking his life had become. Indeed, how lacking it had been already. And perhaps it is too sentimental and too tender a thought, but it wasn't until Elara Winston had entered onto the pages of his fate and marked his life with her bold personality that he truly acknowledged how bland and colorless his world was.

Sometimes, over the course of the last eight years, he has wondered why he's done it to himself – love her, that is. Why did he allow her to get under his skin with such permanence and power? The man he had been before would never have let it happen. He was raised with the understanding that love is weakness, and yet he feels anything but weak when he thinks upon the moments he has shared with the sardonic Victor from 5.

Truly, everything he thought he knew about love had been itself weak and paltry. It is nothing like what he now knows. There is no comparison. And – there is no black and white, either, but a multitude of greys, shading the spaces between them with a potency made up entirely of her effect on him.

What had begun as an act of mercy, at best, and a poor excuse to feel something other than pain and manipulation, at worst, had turned into something inexplicably powerful. He's had many opportunities to break it off with her throughout the years. Their clandestine affair has had its share of challenges. Impatience and prudence, secrecy and fear of being caught, and – the panic produced by the realization that what it is between them had not been as casual as they had initially imagined. He has spent eight years cultivating something that he did not truly understand, until recently.

And now? Now, he understands his heart a little too well. Far too well for his own good.

Elara's words haunt him. As much as he'd like to be with her – take her into his arms and sleep with her body pressed to his – he says goodnight and drops her off at her floor. She just kisses the corner of his mouth and leaves him to his thoughts. It used to frighten him, how well she knows him, but now it only makes him realize just how deeply they have tread down this path, and how desperately he wants to stay the course.

Surviving the Hunger Games? Is it even possible? Should he even entertain the notion?

He shuffles into his suite and is at once grateful that his sister is not around to question him on his whereabouts. He immediately heads for his room and ducks into the bathroom to shower, pulling his clothes off idly, in a thoughtless way. His mind is spinning far too much to linger on anything other than the prospects ahead of him. It is difficult to fathom the idea of District 13 not only existing, but existing is such a way as to provide the level of assistance that is necessary to alter the course of events.

He's always known that the Capitol keeps its secrets tightly bound, away from daylight, but to think that the government has managed to hide the fact that District 13 is as powerful as they apparently are is baffling to him. And he thinks, as the hot water from the showerhead pours over him, that it is all a huge form of manipulation against not only him, but also the entirety of Panem. He has been a part of this system for so long; an unwilling recipient of that very same manipulation. His life has never been his, and he had thought that it never would be. But all of the sudden, he feels inexorably _angry_ that he has been so repressed. That _everyone_ in this nation has been pushed down to such a degree.

He goes into the shower feeling hesitant and unsure. He comes out of it feeling determined.

Surely he deserves more than the life he has lived. Does not every man deserve freedom? He thinks back upon his life and can think of only a few things that have made him truly happy. His sister, his family, his lover. And then he wonders what would make him happier – what dreams he might have had, if he was allowed to have them. What sort of life he would like to live.

As he sits down on the side of his bed, the picture in his mind is only too clear.

Of course, he's never outright admitted that he'd like a family of his own, but somewhere deep inside of him, he'd like to be a father someday. To provide for a family. To buy a home and have a real job that requires real work, and not just a few visits to the Capitol every few months to flaunt his celebrity status. It is only too easy to picture such a life and to imagine Elara there with him.

At the thought of her, her words spiral through his head, tumbling one after another as if they are granules of sand in a desert storm that tear across the landscape with the very same vengeance that had captured her eyes when they had spoken on the rooftop.

_I'd fight for you, Gloss. I would._

He leans over, rubbing his eyes with his palms and exhaling loudly. He thinks now of the repercussions of their actions, pitting one potential outcome against the other. The life he can so easily conjure is only one side of the scale, but it could easily seesaw into darker possibilities should they fail.

Physical torture and pain, he can handle. But a life without her? To never see her again, to know that she is in pain as well, and to know that he cannot do anything to help her? He would be powerless to lift her burdens, because surely Snow would put an end to their connection the very first moment he could. Surely, he would make it so that neither of them was in the Capitol at the same time again. They would never so much as see each other, let alone hold or kiss or be with each other in the ways that they have grown accustomed to – indeed, that they yearn for with every fiber of their souls.

Yet this life that they live, this connection that they share, it is a figment of something greater. A shadow of something unattainable. As they are now, they have only scratched the surface of their feelings. They live in a dream that will never be fully realized unless something is done to bring it to life.

If Gloss is being truthful, he had already made his decision back on the rooftop when he had looked into Elara's eyes. His heart has a terrible tendency of shifting to fold into hers – it is not something he can stop or control, nor does he wish to. He has long ago stopped trying to pull his desires apart where she is concerned.

He sits there for a long time, head in his hands and mind spinning. And then, after what feels like an age, he stands up and walks to the door.

Elara is lying in bed when he storms into her room. His entrance is sudden and unexpected. She had not thought she would see him tonight. But to her great surprise, Gloss shuts the door firmly and doesn't say a word as he pushes her back into the bed, following her down and capturing her lips with his in an insistent kiss. It's fiery and shaky all at once, but she does not question him.

He slips between the sheets, nestling his body over hers, wrangles her clothes off her hips and reaches up to spin fire into her skin. Neither of them says a single word as they push clothing away and join their bodies. Nothing is exchanged besides the truth of their eyes and the beating of their hearts and the desire the plucks at their skin – desire that transcends all earthly ties and branches out further than the physical lust that haunts them now. No, this desire is deeper than that, rooted in a desperate yearning that cannot be so easily expressed in words alone. It spans out over their future, plays behind their eyes with unspoken solemnity. It is a desire for something more than just late night affairs and painful goodbyes; more than silent love that has never been voiced; more than aching hearts that long for each other when they are apart.

And it is not just those desires that they exchange as he presses himself into her and claims her yet again (he will never tire of her body, or the way she makes love to him or the way he feels himself shatter against her each and every time), it is also a promise. A pledge. An oath.

And by the time their bodies still, and their breaths even out, and he drops down beside her and buries his face into her neck and pulls her tight against him, he says only one thing.

"I'll fight for you, Elara."

Elara just swallows thickly, eyes swimming with unshed tears that are both happy and fearful, and she turns her body into his to kiss his forehead.

She doesn't say anything else.

For now, her silence is enough.


	32. The cries of their own shifted blame

**Chapter Thirty Two | The grumbled cries of their own shifted blame.**

"'_Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here,_

_Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog_

_And little mouse, every unworthy thing,_

_Live here in heaven and may look on her;_

_But Romeo may not."_

_3.3, 29-33 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Sometimes, he hates himself. It isn't usually a conscious hatred. It's a growing feeling, like the way a plant springs from the ground. First, the seed germinates in the soil, inhaling nutrients as it opens beneath the ground. It takes days, even weeks, for the first sign of it above the dirt, but when it finally breaches the earth, the roots are already embedded deep below the ground._

_Other times, it is more of a conscious feeling than he wants it to be. Those are the times when he does something that he knows he shouldn't do, or even that he doesn't really want to do, but he does it anyway of his own accord because he just can't say no to his many vices._

_Cashmere doesn't ask him where he's going when he steps into the kitchen, buttoning up a fresh shirt. They both have their own lives in District 1. At least, as much of a life as they can have, all things considered. She isn't about to cluck at him like a mother hen. She knows full well where he's off to, and trying to stop him would be useless._

_Her brother doesn't drink that often. He has a handle on those temptations and she's never concerned herself overmuch with them. Every once in a while though…_

"_When will you be home?" is all she asks as she sits on the couch and flips a page of the book she's reading. She glances at him from the corner of her eye._

_Gloss pauses as he adjusts his collar, and shrugs, "I don't know. Don't bother waiting up."_

_She hums in response and he leaves, shutting the door calmly behind him before venturing out into the familiar streets of his home. Inside though, he is not nearly as calm._

_His mind spins with thoughts of his recent parting with Elara. It's only been a week, but it feels like an age. They're not scheduled to be in the Capitol at the same time for another two months, and the thought makes him strangely depressed. He doesn't want to admit that it's because he misses her, but…_

_He does._

_It aggravates him. He shouldn't miss her. She shouldn't mean anything to him. She is a form of comfort, and nothing more. They had agreed upon it from the very beginning, so why does it feel as if she is so much more than that?_

_His fist clenches at his side as he ducks down the busy street that runs through the heart of the district. If he's being honest with himself, he isn't angry because of what he feels for Elara Winston. No – he's angry because he can't do anything about it. His hands are tied, and maybe that's just as well because he isn't entirely sure what he would do even if he had the chance._

_Love? He hardly knows how to navigate such a thing. But lust – now that is a different story._

_He doesn't go to the bar planning on bringing someone home with him. Maybe, if he knew that this would end up happening, he wouldn't have gone at all. He hardly knows his own heart these days, only that it seems to beat out a tune that he is not yet familiar with._

_And yet – that is exactly what he does._

_It wouldn't be a lie to say that District 1 adores its Victors. They are celebrities here. Their status goes above and beyond even the most well-known socialites and wealthy CEOs, for which District 1 has many. When he is approached by a woman as he hovers over a whiskey at the bar, he isn't surprised. This sort of thing happens often enough. Bringing them home happens often enough, too. But this time it's different. This time, even as he leads the giggling woman past Cashmere's house and goes instead to his own unused home, something feels off._

_He isn't able to place it at first. The various drinks he'd had, both before the woman had joined him as well as after, has addled his brain. His thoughts are strung out like faraway stars out of sync with their constellations and adrift in a foreign sky. He doesn't try to put them back into place. It takes far more effort than he has at this moment._

_He just wants to feel something, that's all. In a way, that's all he's ever wanted. Is it such a crime to try to remind himself that he is still human? That he isn't the mindless killing machine that he had been during his Games, or the broken shard of a soul he has been since then?_

"_Is this your house?" the woman whispers at him, drunkenly swaying as he digs around for the key he rarely uses. The fact that he even has it in his pocket is a habit bred from similar nights in the past. He hadn't even given it a second though before leaving for the bar. Slipping it into his pocket had been a natural thing to do. He only uses this house when he needs time away from his sister, and nights like these definitely call for such distance._

_Gloss shoves the key into the lock. It takes a few tries to turn it properly, during which the woman hangs off his arm and giggles again. Her voice is loud in the silence of the night, and for some reason the pitch of it makes him a little annoyed._

"_Come in," he tells her when he gets the door open, and she stumbles inside. He follows, glancing across the street to his sister's house briefly before shutting the door again. The lights are still on. Cashmere has an annoying tendency of waiting up for him despite the many times he's told her not to. After a while, she'll give up and go to sleep. She's not blind to his habits._

_It's been several months since he's stepped into this house last. In his current state, he hardly notices the thin layer of dust on the furniture. He flicks the light on and sends the woman a debonair smile before heading over to the kitchen to riffle through the bottom cabinet. When he straightens out again, he's holding a bottle of hard liquor._

"_Another drink?" he asks the woman. He can't recall her name. She doesn't seem to care._

"_Of course!" is all she says in response, and falls down on the couch. She doesn't seem to notice the dust, either._

_Gloss maneuvers his way through the kitchen to find the glasses, momentarily forgetting where they are. It takes him a few minutes to locate them, during which the woman makes herself comfortable by kicking her heels off and sinking into the pillows of the couch. When he hands her a glass, she purrs out a thank you, but the sound is too slurred to be sensual._

_He doesn't care. They only take a few sips of it before he's crawling over her and chuckling as he dips down to press his mouth against hers. The kiss is strange, but he doesn't question it. The woman beneath him is everything he thinks he needs right now. When she arches into him and starts unbuttoning his shirt, he lets her._

"_You know…I've had a crush on you for years now," she drunkenly murmurs, and then breaks out into a series of giggles as she pushes his shirt off his shoulders and immediately goes for his belt._

_Gloss snorts, sliding a hand over her breast as she grinds her hips up into his. "You don't even know me," he points out. For some reason, it makes the woman giggle even harder._

_He's getting a little annoyed at her giggling, but instead of telling her to stop, he just pushes her dress off and slides it down her legs. Then, nestling against her, he starts kissing down her neck and groans at the desire that begins to blossom over his body._

_The woman grips his hair and scratches her way down his back and says, "You don't need to know someone to fuck them."_

_The words have a strange effect on him. He pauses between her breasts and looks up at her with a frown. She doesn't notice at first. She's too busy running her hands down his body, groping at him with singular intent. Normally he wouldn't have a problem with this, but for some reason he can't stop thinking about how her words sound like a client's and how different this touch is compared to Elara's._

_Being with Elara is an experience all its own. Her touch spins fire into parts of him that he hadn't known existed. Her kiss makes him forget all the reasons why his life is such a nightmare._

_He hovers there above the woman, swallowing tightly when she touches him. Her fingers are not gentle. Whether that's due to her personality or just because she's too drunk to realize, he doesn't know. What he does know is that it's making him feel this ridiculous sense of guilt, and he can't seem to push the feeling aside._

_It's not as if he belongs to Elara, or that she belongs to him. They aren't together. Their relationship is static – it comes and goes, vanishes and reappears like a radio transmission. It doesn't mean anything._

_So then why does he feel so guilty all of the sudden? He's taken plenty of women to this house. They don't mean anything, either. Just because he enjoys being with Elara doesn't mean that she's his. And yet…the woman's words drift through his head. She had said that you don't need to know someone in order to fuck them, and she's right, but…_

_God, he knows Elara so well now. His innate understanding of her character makes being with her so incredibly sublime. When he's inside her, he hardly feels like himself. Instead he feels like everything he could be, if he lived in a world where such things were possible. And when she takes him, she doesn't just take him – she breathes life into him at the same time, in such a way that he hardly even realizes she's doing it because he gets so lost within the planes of their bodies and the undercurrent of their souls._

"_Touch me," the woman says, taking his hand and laying it against her breast. Such an invitation would make any man eager to fulfill it, but all he can think about now is how this woman's body isn't the one he's craving. Her skin is too tan, her eyes too brown. Her hair doesn't shine with coppery strands, and her form is too curvy. He doesn't know when he had begun to think of Elara as the perfect woman, but for some reason he longs for her fine lines and sharp angles, her arching curves and low voice._

_He sighs and leans back, pulling himself away from her to instead sit down on the other end of the couch. After a moment, he reaches for his glass and takes a large sip. He figures he isn't quite drunk enough to handle this complicated layer of guilt that he feels breaching up inside his chest. It doesn't make sense to him, but then again, nothing about Elara Winston has ever made much sense._

_With a frown, the woman sits up too. "Why did you stop?" she asks, and reaches for her dress. Even in her drunken state, she seems to realize that the atmosphere has inexplicably changed._

_Gloss just grips his glass harder and says, "I just…I think you should leave." He glances over at her and sighs, "I'm sorry."_

_There is something strangely sincere in his voice, and it rather blunts the woman's indecency about the whole situation in a way she can't understand – only it shows in the crease of his eyes and the stiff set of his shoulders._

"…_Alright," she responds, frowning in confusion. She hesitates for a moment before pulling her dress back on. She pauses again and then reaches out to scribble her number on a bit of paper that's strewn over the coffee table. Gloss doesn't outwardly react to this, even when she turns to him and shrugs, "Just in case you're in the mood some other night."_

_Apparently, when you're a Victor from District 1, you can do no wrong. The woman looks disappointed, but there's a hopeful gleam in her eyes that makes him frown even after she takes her leave. He doesn't try to help her even as she stumbles off, and just scoffs when he lifts the number and studies the looping writing._

_He doesn't know how long he sits there before he's reaching for the phone and pushing a different number into the dial pad._

_It rings five times before a groggy voice picks it up and asks, "Hello?"_

_Gloss closes his eyes as a strange sense of peace washes over him._

"…_Did I wake you up?" he asks, and Elara snorts._

"_Gloss?" she asks, sounding surprised to hear his voice, and then wryly says, "It's past midnight. Of course you woke me up."_

_He bites back a smile and chuckles, "Sorry." Then he frowns, wondering why he keeps apologizing to people tonight. This particular apology goes a little deeper than merely waking her up, though he's still not entirely sure he understands it himself._

_Elara yawns and murmurs, "Are you alright? You sound a little off."_

_He pauses, leans back, and haltingly says, "I…miss you, I guess. Is that weird?"_

_She laughs. "Completely," she tells him, and he laughs too._

_Why does he feel so much better now that he's talking to her?_

"_I miss you too," she quietly tells him after a moment, and even though he doesn't see, she clenches her hands into fists at the late night confession._

_He smiles tightly and murmurs, "I think there's something wrong with us, Winston." But inside, he doesn't have to guess at what, exactly, it is. He doesn't want anyone but her. The realization is like a bucket of cold water, and yet…_

"_There's a lot of things wrong with us, but I don't think missing each other is one of them," she tells him then, and the warmth that he feels spread through his chest completely counteracts the chill of his realization._

"_Mmm…maybe you're right," he concedes, tilting his head back against the couch and sighing._

_Missing Elara Winston is, after all, just another hollow piece of his heart._

* * *

Later that night, the solemnity is broken.

"This plan isn't going to work if I join Katniss's group," Gloss murmurs through the silence. The lamp on the bedside table is on, bathing the room in dim light. Gloss and Elara are tangled together with a familiarity that only two such souls have. He's got her pulled close to him, side by side, foreheads pressed together. Though their breathing is slow and steady, neither of them are asleep. Perhaps it is fear that keeps them awake – fear of the Games, fear of the unknown, fear of what might happen to them in the coming future. It doesn't matter, really, what thoughts pluck at their minds. The only thing that truly matters is the way they fit so perfectly together, even in the face of all this uncertainty.

Elara reaches up to palm the side of his face. Her fingers idle over his skin, her touch so light that he barely feels her caress. In a very soft voice, so quiet that even he is hard pressed to hear her, she breathes, "What are you saying?"

He stares at her. That he is here, now, in her bed and pressed to her body, says all that needs to be said regarding his desires to survive these Games. Yet he knows that if they are going to do this, they will need to tweak the plan in order to accommodate them into it.

"…Cashmere and I will join up with the other Careers. People expect us to," he whispers, smoothing his hand up her spine. "But…I want you to get in with the others. It's safer, and I know Finnick and Johanna will look out for you."

It's not easy for him to say that, to entrust her life to other people. To willingly separate himself from her in the arena, of all places, where death could take any of them at any moment. Every piece of him wants to have her near him, to protect her, to keep her safe, but one of them needs to be a part of Katniss's group, and it can't be him. Katniss Everdeen wouldn't trust him with a ten foot pole, but she might just trust Elara.

She frowns at him. Lifting herself up on her elbow, Elara mutters, "No. I'm staying with you. Gloss – "

"If you stay with me, Brutus will kill you off the first chance he gets," he cuts in, swiftly sitting up. He turns to her, grasps her shoulders, and says, "You're safer with them. Look, Elara, I swear I'll do everything in my power to join up with you before the end. I promise you."

She slowly sits up too, studying his expression as she carefully responds, "Something will go wrong, Gloss. It always does."

He swallows. He knows she's right. This is the Hunger Games, and nothing ever goes right when it comes to this bloody tradition. But she had to realize that this is the only way. Two Careers wouldn't be able to just waltz into Katniss Everdeen's group and just be accepted as allies, right then and there. The Girl on Fire would sooner stick them with arrows than trust them that much.

She edges closer to him, reaching out to slide her hands over his brawny shoulders. He brings her to his body, heaving her into his lap and breathing out against her hair. The safety of his arms seems lessened suddenly, as if they are already in danger.

"How will you know when to meet up with us?" she asks, clutching him tightly, like she's afraid he might disappear on the wisp of a breeze.

He sighs out and murmurs, "I'll find a way to keep track of you. You have to trust me, Elara. This is for the best and you know it. It's the only way."

She immediately shakes her head, but doesn't reply. Though she physically denies his words, inside she knows that he's right. It _is_ the only way.

Gloss seems to understand her silence in a way that only he can, for he brings her closer and whispers, "I don't want to be parted from you, but you won't be safe around Brutus and Enobaria. They might have accepted you as a friend before, but now that we're tributes again…"

Elara sighs, "I know." Then, lifting her face, she catches his eye and thickly says, "But how will I know you'll be safe? There's no point in surviving this if I lose you."

His eyes darken immediately upon her words. He purses his mouth and says, "Cash will look out for me." He pauses, studies her face closely, then murmurs, "Elara…promise me you'll…move on, if something happens – no, don't talk," he says, swiftly cutting her off when she starts to speak. He swallows and grasps her tightly, "There are other people who could make you happy. If I don't make it…promise me you'll at least try." She stares at him as if he's just betrayed her, and he sighs. In a quiet voice, he shakily adds, "You know it's not easy for me to say that. You're _mine_. You belong with me. But I need to know that you'll try to live if I don't make it out of this alive."

She frowns and moves closer to him, burying her face against his shoulder as she struggles to find words. It takes her a few lengthy minutes to ensure that her voice won't shake and that the tears filling her eyes won't overflow. When she does, Elara whispers, "I can promise you that I'll try to live, Gloss, but…I can't promise that I'll find someone else. I'll never find anyone like you."

He buries his face against her too and hoarsely says, "There's no one like you either, Winston."

They don't say anything more for a long time, but their silence cannot last forever. Their plans need to be hammered out further, extrapolated to an extent where they both understand what they need to do, and when, and how.

"We need to keep pretending," he whispers later. "We need to make it seem like we don't care about each other at all, at least for the start of the Games. If we play it that way, no one will question why we're splitting up in the arena."

Elara chuckles bitterly and drawls, "Well that's not hard. We're already used to pretending all of that."

The smile he sends her then is tight with a similar bitterness, borne from all the years of sneaking around. He exhales slowly and leans in to kiss her, lips moving over hers with a gentleness that is part sorrow, part hope. She responds to him, mirroring the emotions that he expresses with his kiss. She feels them too, rising up beneath her skin like a plague. Nothing is ever easy for them, and that is the worst curse of all.

"Everything will work out," she whispers against his lips. She has to believe that. If she doesn't, the walls she has built over the last eight years – the fortifications against the Capitol and her own grief – will come tumbling down.

Gloss hums, though he isn't sure if the noise is one of agreement or not. In truth, he does not know if their plan will work. He isn't sure if he should even dare to hope, when it could so easily be torn asunder.

But, for her sake, he doesn't refute her words. Instead he just presses her into the mattress and hikes her leg around his waist, nestling his body over hers once more. It is very late by now, but sleep will not come to them tonight. The Games are only a few days away, and there is only one cure for the insomnia that its arrival brings.

"Let me love you," he whispers, kissing her deeper, as if he's trying to take all of her into all of him.

Elara's only response is to drag her touch over his body, pulling his length inside of her and sighing out as he begins to move. She cannot help but let him love her. That, she thinks, is also a plague, for being in love is not the perfect state of existence that the poets like to claim. In her experience, it is a painful, thorny thing that makes her bleed just as much as it heals her. It is a tempest, a monster, a nightmare, and yet…

Perhaps her heart is just dark and hollow, but she cannot help but throw herself into the eye of this storm again and again. Some lessons are meant to be repeated, and this is not one that she wishes to ever learn.

* * *

The next day, a different sort of tempest tears into her world. It is one that she expects. One that she knows she can't ignore.

She's with Finnick at the trident station, letting him laughingly show her how to throw a trident. Laughingly, because she clearly lacks the necessary skill and strength to heft the weapon through the air and into one of the targets on the other end of the station. Still, Finnick isn't a bad teacher. He shows her how to stand and how to hold the trident, even as he jokes about her lack of arm strength.

His jokes come to a roiling halt when Cashmere storms over, snatches Elara by the elbow, and angrily twists her around. Her expression is tight and barely calm when she stares at Elara, and Elara isn't foolish enough to question the reasons for it. Gloss must have spoken to her.

"Are you insane?" Cashmere immediately hisses, throwing Finnick a glare as she pulls Elara off to the side. Finnick does a decent job pretending not to eavesdrop, but all three of them know that he is. He idly turns a trident around his hands and eyes one of the targets, but his head is tilted towards them and his eyes are flashing with a seriousness that he rarely allows them to possess.

Elara isn't particularly worried about Finnick overhearing them. She's already spoken to him about everything. It had been her priority that morning, making sure that he was aware of her new part in the plans. His acceptance of her is important. Without him and Johanna, she might not be able to convince Katniss to allow her to ally with them. Finnick had told her that if Katniss had her way, _none_ of them would ally with her, and that she shouldn't worry about it too much. He told her he'd look out for her. After years of their similar sufferings, he said it was only right.

If only Cashmere would agree.

"Gloss told you, then?" she murmurs, drawing her arm from Cashmere's tight grip. The Victor from 1, and one of her closest friends, crosses her arms and glowers at her. Her eyes are angry, but they're also fearful. It is a combination of emotion that Elara understands, for it is perfectly mirrored in her own eyes.

Cashmere frowns and quietly seethes, "It's bound to fail, Elara. You know it is. We can't beat the Capitol at its own game. Look what happened the last time people tried. An entire district was wiped out."

Elara opens her mouth to calm her friend, but Cashmere just glowers at her and swiftly says, "But the worst thing about this whole mess is that you've dragged my brother into it. You of all people should know how dangerous it is to hope for something that is never going to happen."

The words sting, just a little. Elara clamps her mouth shut and shoves her hands into her pockets, turning her gaze to the opposite wall as Cashmere's words drift through her. She's right, in a way. Elara does know the dangers that hope brings. Hope is a creature all its own, and it has brimmed up within her many times over the last few years only to come crashing down.

Cashmere sighs, glancing around as she murmurs, "This plan is going to get us all killed. Are you really that selfish? Would you really send Gloss to his death like this?"

Immediately, Elara's gaze snaps up to Cashmere. Her blue eyes are sharp and strong, and when she next speaks, her voice comes out in a hiss of sound. "That's not fair, Cashmere."

Cashmere's eyebrows turn down even further. She stares at Elara for a long moment, then mutters, "I'm not under any illusions that any of us will survive these Games. If the plan does succeed for the others, great, but what about the rest of us? If the Capitol gets their hands on us, we're dead. We're worse than dead. And if you think Snow will stop with us, you're wrong. Think about your sister, Elara."

Something dark and uneasy churls through Elara at this reminder. She has considered this too, of course. She'd be stupid not to think about Amelia and the consequences that might come upon her should they fail. She's already experienced the taste of Snow's vengeance upon her family once before, and she isn't naïve enough to think that Amelia would be safe. But – it's for her that Elara wants to do this. Amelia's tearful words have been ringing through her mind for days now. The way she had begged her not to leave, pleaded her to try to win so that she could come home again…

Either way, they are walking on thin ice. One misstep and they will falter, spinning into the darkness that they try so hard to stay above. There are no right choices this time around. There are only in-betweens.

Elara opens her mouth to respond to her friend, but Finnick's voice smoothly cuts in to say, "I think you should both keep your voices down."

They both turn to look at him, only to find that he has abandoned the trident station and is stepping over to them. His expression is wary and hard, his eyes determined. His usual laid-back nature has been shrouded over by a severity that Elara rarely bears witness to.

Cashmere turns her frown on him, and Finnick raises his eyebrows at her. Him and Cashmere have never gotten along all that well, but neither has their relationship been negative. They have always kept out of each other's way, ignoring the other for the most part. They doubtlessly would have continued to do so had this new plan not drawn them together in ways that only a rebellion can.

Granted, Cashmere hasn't quite come to terms with the possibility of said plan, but Finnick is nothing if not convincing. He idles beside them and quietly says, "You should be thankful that Johanna wanted Elara to be a part of this at all, otherwise you would have gone into that arena blind. You can't possibly say that you don't want your freedom. That you don't want to be rid of the life that Snow has forced you to live. All those hotels rooms – they have a way of ruining you. Do you really want to live out the rest of your life like that?"

Cashmere stares at him in stony silence. The Victor from 1 has a way of inflicting fear into anyone with just one cutting look, but Finnick just stands there and casually tilts his head at her, clearly unimpressed with her glower. He isn't the type to bow in the face of such things.

With an aggravated snort, Cashmere scoffs, "I'd rather be alive than dead."

Finnick just gives her a careful look. It's an expression that's partially understanding, partially pitying, and it seems to rankle her. He slowly murmurs, "It's true that this plan might fail. But I'm going to fight for my freedom. I'm not going to sit back and do nothing when there's a chance for a better life."

With that, Finnick nods to Elara and strides away, leaving the pair to themselves as he heads over to where Mags is sitting on the far side of the training room. He seems to take the anger and the fear away with him, for when Cashmere turns to Elara next, she appears far more resigned and far less aggravated.

"…He looked so hopeful, Elara," she whispers after a long minute of utter silence, broken only by the sounds of the other Victors at various stations. Cashmere stares at her friend with frustrated eyes and breathes, "My brother deserves to be happy. He's been through so much…I don't want him to suffer. You understand that."

It isn't a question. Cashmere knows that Elara understands it. She knows that she agrees with it. Gloss has already suffered enough. They all have, in their own ways.

Elara swallows thickly and grasps Cashmere's arm. She breathes out and tells her, "I love him, Cashmere. I love him."

She's never said the words aloud. It's funny, in a way, that when she finally does, it is not to Gloss but to his sister. And yet, in another way, it all makes sense. Cashmere gives her a painful smile and pats her hand. She sighs out heavily.

"I know you do," she whispers. "You'll look after him, if I'm not there to do it myself. Promise me."

Elara frowns. "Cash – "

"Just say it," Cashmere glares, and Elara sighs.

"…I promise," she tells her, though inside she wonders if she'll be able to keep that promise. She isn't a fighter. She doubts she'd even be able to look after herself, let alone Gloss. But inside, Elara knows that that isn't the sort of protection Cashmere is asking for. The protection she is speaking of goes far deeper than physical wounds.

"I'm glad that we're friends, Cash," Elara tells her after a moment. The two of them are standing side by side now, looking out over the sea of stations and Victors who, in a few days' time, will turn from friends to enemies. She hopes that their friendship will remain intact.

Cashmere just chuckles and murmurs, "If our lives weren't as shitty as they are, we'd be sisters by now."

And, with one last knowing look, Cashmere heads off down the line of stations, leaving Elara standing behind her with eyes that feel just a little more watery than they ought to.

* * *

"Are you ready for the private sessions?" Gloss asks her later on, when he comes over to where she's standing by the snare station. Elara jerks in surprise, clearly not expecting his sudden appearance, and he smirks and crouches down beside her in the tall grasses. The training station is a large oval of grass and saplings, just big enough to give one the illusion that they are in a forest and not in the training center.

"…I'm ready," Elara tells him once the surprise dies down. She turns her attention back to the snare she's trying to set. While she's hardly a hunter, the mechanical aspects of the contraption appeal to her mindset, and her fingers move quickly over it as she drags one of the wires into place. She moves too fast though, and ends up sliding her forefinger over the sharp edge of the wire. When she cuts herself, she jerks her hand away with a glower, and petulantly sighs down at the droplets of blood.

Gloss doesn't say a word. Instead he just gives the rest of the room a quick glance before reaching for her hand and lifting it to his mouth. He presses a kiss to her palm first, then drops her hand into his lap and firmly presses the edge of his shirt against the cut to stop the bleeding.

Elara looks strangely bashful in lieu of his actions, especially when he continues their conversation as if nothing had happened.

"What are you going to do for your session?" he asks.

She glances up at him and tries to wrangle her hand back, but he's got it in a tight grip. With an exasperated sigh, she grumbles, "I don't fucking know, Gloss. Maybe I'll just make small talk with the Gamemakers."

He purses his lips at her tone and looks down at her finger, focusing for now on seeing if the bleeding has stopped yet. As he does, Elara frowns and mutters, "Sorry. I…didn't mean to say that."

He swallows and says, "I just want to make sure you'll be okay." He says the words as if they are stilted, shadowed with more than just a blaze of fear. She rarely hears his voice take on such a sound, and it makes her feel all the worse for having been so sarcastic with him.

With a sigh, she twists her hand in his, fingers tangling. Her finger isn't bleeding anymore, and he doesn't do anything to stop her when she sidles closer and murmurs, "You know I'm not weak, Gloss. I can take care of myself. You don't have to worry so much about me."

True, she isn't as strong as he is. Not physically, anyway. But – there are other forms of strength that she possesses, and he knows that by now. God, does he know. It takes a very strong person to deal with the manipulation Elara Winston has dealt with over the past eight years. A life of forced prostitution is not for the weak-hearted.

He grips her hand tighter and hoarsely murmurs, "I just…I wish things were different. I want to protect you."

To be her shield, in times of trouble. To be her rock, when she needs to break down. To be whatever she needs him to be, at whatever moment, in whatever universe. He wants her to need him, because he needs her just as much, though he dares not say the words aloud. When he glances up at her face, he knows that he doesn't have to, though. Elara sees those words as clear as day as if they are written across the very planes of his face.

"I want to protect _you,"_ she responds, and he lets out a strangled laugh full of emotions he does not want to acknowledge.

"What a mess we're in," he murmurs to her, but thinks to himself that he wouldn't have it any other way. This thing between them has grown wild. It had been left untended for years, allowed to take root in places he had not anticipated. Like weeds, his feelings for Elara – and her feelings for him – have shot up out of the dark earth and into a world that should, by all accounts, have suffocated them long ago. Yet the weeds are still there, the roots still tangled together, and even if this rebellious plan does not go the way they intend it to, he knows without a doubt that it will not be easy to cut away those feelings.

She just gives him a stilted smile that looks more like a grimace than anything else, and flips his hand over to trace the lines of his palm. She turns her eyes down, studying the familiar callouses. If she were artistically inclined, she could probably draw his hand from memory. The thought saddens her as much as it breathes life through her. She wonders if it will always be this way – this mixture of pain and pleasure, of hope and tragedy.

With a soft sigh, she brings his hand to her lips and kisses it. When she pulls back, she whispers, "The interviews are tonight. Do you know what angle you're playing?"

He shrugs, thumbing over the back of her hand as he murmurs, "Cash and I have always been the Capitol's children, even back during our first Games. It's the best angle we've got."

She hums in agreement. It is. The Capitol adores the District 1 Victors. They love every Victor from District 1, but they probably love Gloss and Cashmere the most. They see the pair as an extension of themselves. In a way, calling them the Capitol's children is a phrase that makes plenty of sense. She wonders what they would think if they knew what sorts of people the siblings _really_ are. Any favor they had felt towards the Capitol had quickly drained away after their Games, once the veil that had kept the silent horrors at bay was lifted. Cashmere was forced to visit a multitude of hotel rooms when she won, and Gloss…

Gloss has his fair share of horrors too. He tiptoes the line between prostitution and photoshoots, venturing into both worlds equally. He's never had nearly as many clients as Finnick, but he's been to plenty of hotel rooms all the same, and a person does not forget an experience like that. Not easily, anyway.

Gloss squeezes her hand and asks, "What about you? Are you going to be the sarcastic Elara Winston that the Capitol loves, or somebody else?"

She gives him a wry expression that's tinted with amusement, and he smiles crookedly at her. With a chuckle, she says, "…I think this time around I'm just going to be myself."

At this, his eyebrows raise, eyes flashing into hers as his crooked smile turns into a smirk. "Oh? I'm not sure the Capitol could take that."

She laughs at him and releases his hand to swat at his shoulder playfully. He darts back with a chuckle.

"_You_ can take it. I'm sure other people can too," is all she says, and his smirk turns downright sinful.

He leans forward and murmurs lowly, "Yes, but I've taken pretty much _all_ of you by now, so I'm used to how aggravating you are."

She gives him a look, eyes roving his face as she mutters, "Aggravating?" She raises a challenging eyebrow at him and he purses his lips to keep his smile at bay.

"Mmhmm," he drawls, and then playfully adds, "You're a fucking wildcat, Winston. Half the time I don't even know what to do with you."

Her eyes flash with mirth. She smiles and shrugs, "I think you know _exactly_ what to do with me, Gloss."

He doesn't answer with words, but the way his eyes gleam at her with the dark traces of desire tells her everything she needs to know and more. He hums and gives her one last smirk before standing up and straightening out his shirt. As he glances around the room, he says, "I'll see you at the private sessions later. I'm going to go take a shower and try to get Cashmere to talk to me."

At this, Elara rocks back on her heels and carefully wonders, "She won't talk to you? Is she still angry?"

He rolls his eyes and gruffly responds, "You know how she is. She'll come around before we enter the arena, but until then, she's giving me the cold silent treatment."

It isn't very surprising to Elara that Cashmere is against the plan that Haymitch had told her about. The blonde Victor isn't loyal to the Capitol – far from it, really – but she's also very careful about not inciting the wrath of their president. She's always been like that, for as long as Elara has known her. And, having been on the receiving end of Cashmere's 'cold silent treatment' herself many times, she can't help but feel a little bad for Gloss.

With a wince, she says, "Good luck."

He just gives her an exasperated look that silently says 'yeah right' and lopes away, smiling slightly when he hears Elara's amused snort as he goes.


	33. Then shall I paint a picture of my love

**Chapter Thirty Three | Then shall I paint a picture of my love,**

"_Farewell. Thou canst not teach me to forget."_

_1.1, 236 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_It's raining outside – pattering droplets that glisten in the late afternoon sun. They hit the windows in small torrents and makes the atmosphere of the room seem turbulent and profound; two things that always seem to exist in some capacity in Elara's life._

_Amelia is off somewhere, doing God knows what. She attracts trouble as if she's a magnet, and at this point, Elara has resigned herself to the fact that her younger sister is probably not going to change. She's still young and wild. Though she's not as innocent in the same way she'd been before, back when Elara was not plagued with nightmares and their parents were still alive, Amelia still had a youthful sort of passion that Elara is sometimes a little jealous of. Her time for such lighthearted sentiments has long since passed, and there is no way of getting them back now._

_She sits in the window seat of the living room and stares out at the grey sky, recalling the bright and vibrant days when she used to spend hours away from home, playing with old friends down by the lake that surrounds District 5. In the summer months, the water would be warm enough to swim in, and she would fearlessly jump off the shabby little dock that's been slowly decaying for decades now, long before she remembers._

_She has many happy memories of that lake. She almost had her first kiss there when she was seven. Almost, because she had been too nervous to go through with it even at that tender age, when kisses were exchanged with far less solemnity. She'd ended up pushing the boy into the lake instead, and bursting out into wild laughter before jumping in after him. He hadn't been upset with her. In fact, he was probably relieved – he had been eight at the time, and kissing a girl was widely known by all his friends to be something dangerous, because cooties were hard to get rid of._

_A slow smile curves over her mouth as she remembers the way her friends had teased her about it for weeks afterwards. Most of those friends were in the same year as her in school. As they grew older, they shared many a late night studying for their difficult exams. To succeed in District 5 and get out of a life of poverty, grading high on those exams is imperative. Her younger self had been utterly enraptured in the thought of what sort of life she could build for herself if she could just get a job at the Grid like her parents. She had thrown herself into her studies with a singular intent back then._

_Long days of studying had quickly replaced those summer hours spent at the lake. By the time she was a teenager, Elara Winston was far more focused on the silly dreams she had of becoming one of the best hydroelectrical engineers District 5 had ever seen. They weren't silly dreams back then, though. They didn't become silly until she was Reaped for the Hunger Games._

_Everything faded after that. Not only was she a different person when she returned to District 5 after the Games, but her entire path in life was irreparably altered._

_She was eighteen when she was Reaped, and at that age, she should have taken her final tests and examinations that would allow her to apply for jobs. But when she returned home, she was far too swept up in the horrors that she had witnessed to focus on anything else. Her studies were left to the wayside. She no longer felt qualified to apply for that pristine job at the Grid, even though she had scored higher than her friends on all the preliminary exams – friends that she ended up losing._

_One by one, they stopped coming around to see her. Maybe they were frightened at the alteration in her personality or the darkness in her eyes. Maybe they were just driven away by the rumors that began to creep through the district after Elara's parents died and she began to go to the Capitol more often._

_No one wanted to associate themselves with the resident whore._

_It got better, of course. After a few years, the rumors began to die down. Her strange lifestyle became a normal facet of life, and even though people still suspected that not everything was as it seemed, they didn't question her anymore. They didn't really do anything, for that matter. Like a ghost, Elara bled back into the seams of District 5 and stayed there, resurfacing only when it was time to polish off her image and step up as a mentor for the latest batch of tributes. And, if any of the citizens blamed her for not succeeding in bringing their children home, well…Elara didn't notice and wouldn't have cared anyway. She blamed herself enough._

_The rain hits the window harder, and a heavy gust of wind shakes the glass in their panes. She tips her head back and sighs, pressing her forehead against the cold window. Her breath fogs it over._

_These days, she isn't concerned with what the people of her district have to say about her monthly visits to the Capitol. She hardly thinks twice about her transformation into Elara Winston, Victor and celebrity. She doesn't bat an eye at the way she is one person when she steps on that train, and an entirely different one when she steps off of it. The Capitol feeds off weakness. She tries her best to shed her own whenever she is forced to visit the sleepless streets._

_There is one weakness, though, that isn't so easy to shed. It comes in a form that also feels like strength, and is therefore rather difficult to define because she never knows which is which._

_She scoffs to herself and says to the empty house, "I miss him."_

_And then, smiling sarcastically, she stretches her legs out over the window seat and turns her eyes from the rain to instead look upon the living room. She doesn't know if imagining him here in this room is a facet of her latest weakness or not, but either way, she can't stop herself._

_He would hate District 5. It rains too much, and the cold winters are too different from the constant heat of him home to impress him. She can't picture him in District 5 anymore than she can picture herself in District 1, but it doesn't stop her from trying every once in a while when her weakness overmasters her._

_Sometimes when she wakes up she thinks she feels his arms around her even though she knows he's not here with her. He is a phantom even now, lingering in the periphery of her vision like a stubborn ghost who won't leave her be. The worst part about it is that she doesn't even want him to._

_Sometimes she imagines what it would be like to live with him and never have to say goodbye. What it might be like to have slow mornings every day, to make breakfast together and have silly, boring small talk about what their plans are. They've never had such an inane conversation before, unless she counts the times when they've gone over their Capitol schedules and what sort of horrors await them for the day. She doesn't think it's quite the same._

_Sometimes, when she's feeling bored enough to wonder, she questions her feelings for him and asks herself if she can't feel that way about someone else, instead. It would be so much easier to be in love with someone else. She would have such a lovely, normal life. Maybe she could fall for a scientist who she could have intellectual conversations with over coffee down by the run-down café on main street. Maybe he wouldn't mind how scarred she is from her Games, or that she sleeps with a knife under her pillow because it's the only way she feels protected against the nightmares that make her scream and relive those horrors over and over again. Maybe he wouldn't mind that she goes to the Capitol every few weeks to have sex with other men, and that there's absolutely nothing he can do about it unless he wants to die a painful death at President Snow's hand. Maybe he wouldn't care that she's got a younger sister to look after because her parents were killed by that very same president._

_Elara laughs to herself. Her mouth shifts into a sarcastic smile. If such a man exists in District 5, she would be utterly shocked. It's a little amusing, then, to think that she already has a man like that._

_Sort of. At least, she has as much of Gloss as she can have, given the circumstances. Gloss doesn't judge her for any of that, because –_

_He sleeps with a knife under his pillow too. He is sometimes forced to have sex with strangers. His parents were killed by President Snow as well. He also has a sister to look out for._

_God, their lives are both so messed up. It's hardly a wonder that they've ended up being messed up together._

_But it's true. No one could possibly understand her life unless they've also lived it. Her personal demons are uniquely terrifying, unless one has had a taste of those terrors for themselves and isn't afraid to face them head on._

_And Gloss, well, he's never afraid of anything. At least, he never shies away from the fear that he surely feels sometimes, every once in a while when he can't hold it back._

_Elara turns her gaze back to the rain outside. Her heart shakes every time a droplet crashes into the window like a miniature tempest. She sighs, and it's a heavy sound._

_She misses him so much._

* * *

They have a busy schedule for the rest of the day. Training ends an hour early today in order to accommodate the inclusion of the private sessions. After those, the interviews have to be prepared for. They'll barely have any time to themselves until later tonight, and with the Games starting tomorrow, that isn't exactly something to look forward to.

At the end of training, the Victors all file into a room off to the side and sit down on one of the long benches. Elara pauses for a moment, looking after Harley as he goes to join Chaff and Seeder. She wonders if she should have made more of an effort to ally with him. He is, after all, her district partner – a small piece of home in this faraway place. But it is far too late for such thoughts now, and Elara instead turns to sit down next to Johanna and Cashmere. One of them sends her a nod of acknowledgement, and the other just stares ahead and ignores her entirely. On Cashmere's other side, Gloss sends Elara a look and she purses her lips at him.

"How does it feel to be first in line?" Elara wonders after a long moment, staring straight ahead too and crossing her legs.

Cashmere turns her head to glance at her, and mutters, "I know exactly what I'm going to do. I'm glad to get it over with."

Elara nods, pleased that Cashmere isn't ignoring her to the point of not answering her question. The last time they'd spoken only a day before, Cashmere had been angry, but she had left the conversation looking far more mollified than she had going into it. Elara can only assume that the woman has had too much time to think about all the reasons why this plan is dangerous. She probably tossed and turned all night while those thoughts ate away at her, which would explain the clipped tone in her voice.

Gloss had said that she'll come around before they enter the arena. Elara knows he's right. He usually is, concerning Cashmere.

When her name is called several minutes later, Cashmere stands up with blazing eyes and marches through the doors without a backwards glance. When she leaves, Gloss slides over to fill her spot beside Elara, swinging an arm up over the back of the bench.

Elara glances over at him, and he shrugs, "She'll come around, trust me."

She sighs and mutters, "…I do trust you, and it definitely gets me into plenty of trouble."

He chuckles and quietly murmurs, "I might say the same about you, Winston."

She throws him a look that is playfully edged, because she knows that the importance of his words goes far beyond the types of trouble that they've gotten into, but rather how much they trust each other.

Beside her, Johanna groans and mutters, "Just _one_ moment where you two aren't trying to get into each other's pants – that's all I ask."

Gloss snickers. Elara elbows him.

"What are you gonna do, Johanna? Throw a couple of axes at the Gamemakers?" Gloss snarks, leaning forward so that he can look at her around Elara. Johanna throws him a dirty look that only seems to make him more amused, and snorts.

Johanna and Gloss's acquaintanceship has never been easy, to say the least. But then, Johanna isn't an easy person to be friends with.

"Too bad you weren't gonna be in there too, Augustine. I might use _your_ head as my target," Johanna grumbles, crossing her arms. Elara bites back a laugh at their quips and leans back on the bench, shifting into a more comfortable position. Minutes pass by. They fall into silence until Gloss's name is called about ten minutes later. He sighs and stands up.

"Good luck," Elara tells him, and he winks at her.

"See you after," is all he says in response, and glances at Johanna with a smirking, "Johanna."

She sends him an edged look as he strides away for the doors, and when he disappears behind them, turns to Elara with an exasperated look in her eyes. Elara pretends not to know why her friend appears so ruffled; she knows better than most the effect that Gloss has on people, when he's in the right mood.

"After all these years, I still don't get it," Johanna tells her, glancing around the room. Finnick and Mags are nearby, talking silently in the manner that they often do – hands waving and lips shifting soundlessly. Some groups are louder than others. Chaff and Seeder are, as always, joking around with Woof and Harley. Some are silent as the grave, like the morphlings who idly wait in the corner and Katniss and Peeta, who sit side by side several benches away, stoic and expressionless.

Elara shrugs, tilting her head back to stare up at the ceiling with a blasé expression. "Trust me, I don't get it either," she tells Johanna with a wry smile. "…He definitely isn't the type of man I thought I'd…you know."

Johanna throws her an insipid glower and supplies, "Turn into an idiot for?"

Elara rolls her eyes, but then admits, "Yes," a moment later. It's true, after all.

With a snort, Johanna mutters, "So what are your plans then? Are you joining up with the Careers, or are you gonna be smart about this and stick with us?"

The question is one that Elara's been meaning to bring to attention. Her and Johanna, and Finnick too, have briefly spoken about Elara's plans in the grand scheme of the rebellion, but nothing has been set in stone. And while this isn't an ideal place to talk about rebellions, they can certainly talk about it as long as they're careful with the words that they choose.

"…We've agreed that it's best if I stick with you," Elara responds slowly, chewing over her words.

Johanna shoots her a sharp glance and raises an eyebrow. "You're splitting up then?"

She doesn't sound surprised, but that doesn't mean she isn't. The extent of Johanna's emotional capacity seems to go as far as anger and bitterness and then falls short. Not that Elara judges her for it. Johanna has lost everything to the Capitol – her life, her family, her will – and if anything, Elara thinks that her strength is her finest attribute, even though Johanna often hides said strength behind biting words.

It's clear that she's at least a little surprised though, when Elara turns to catch her eye. She sees it there behind the muddy brown of her gaze.

With a sigh, Elara says beneath her breath, "Him and Cash are gonna try to meet up with us before the end. Gloss thought it would look suspicious if the Career pack split up."

At this, Johanna hums dryly and answers, "It would." She pauses, then adds, "…You'd better say your goodbyes before we go in. There's no telling what will happen. Even the best laid plans can turn to shit."

Even though it pains her to agree, Elara nods and whispers, "I know. We both do."

They fall into a depressing silence as more names are called and more Victors leave the room. After a while, Elara turns to Johanna and elbows her, "I'm glad we're going in together though. Your sarcasm will make everything feel so much better."

Johanna gives her a glowering look that makes Elara chuckle.

"I don't know why we're friends," is all she says. But, after a beat of silence, Johanna adds, "Good luck. You're crap at fighting, so you'll need it."

Elara snorts. She doesn't argue though. She knows only too well that she isn't a fighter. She can't heave an axe like Johanna or throw a trident like Finnick, and she isn't anywhere near as versatile as Gloss and Cashmere when it comes to the multitude of weapons that they can use. But…well, she isn't totally useless. At least, she doesn't think she is. The Gamemakers will decide if her talents are strong or weak.

"…You too," Elara says to Johanna when she hears her name called over the intercom. With a sigh, Elara stands up and gives her a brief nod, glancing around the room one last time. Finnick catches her eye and sends her wink, and Mags grins. She smiles back at them before turning and walking to the doors, heart hammering in her chest and palms clammy.

As she walks through the door, she feels as though every single fear she's ever had is crawling its way up her throat. She feels faint and nauseous when she steps up to the Gamemakers and clears her throat. She's immensely proud when her voice doesn't shake.

"Elara Winston, District 5," she says in a surprisingly clear voice. How she manages it, she'll never know.

Her eyes dart around the room, looking at the various weapons that are available for the tributes. Above her, Plutarch Heavensbee says, "You may begin, Miss Winston."

Her eyes dart back to him and he sends her a quiet little smile that makes her clear her throat again. Haymitch had mentioned that Heavensbee had a large role in the plan to break out of the arena. It's strange being in front of him though, knowing that he is actually a rebel and that he's orchestrating the Games so that they might all survive to fight the Capitol. It's dizzying, really, but Elara doesn't have time to ponder such a delicate subject right now. She only has a limited amount of time to show her skill, after all.

She takes a quick walk around the room and very nearly drops in relief when she sees the coil of wire sitting idly on the far table. Sending up a silent prayer, she walks to it and tests the gauge. It's thick, but light. Perfect.

It takes her nearly all the time she has to set everything up, even working as quickly as she does. Her fingers fly over the wire, twisting it into intertwining pieces, connecting them together in ways that she had learned back in school. All of her classes come back to her now. It's almost invigorating. She rarely has the chance to utilize such knowledge and she revels in it to such an extent that her nervousness begins to drop away with every addition she makes to her homemade tech.

The Gamemakers soon grow bored with watching her. The more time it takes her to prepare, the less interest they seem to have. They turn to chat with each other, idling the minutes away as if they've written her off entirely. Only Plutarch keeps a watchful eye on her, curiously studying each intricate twist of her hands as she crouches in front of the strange contraption she's building.

Of course, by the time her ten minutes roll by, it becomes rather clear that ignoring Elara Winston is not as easy as the Gamemakers had thought.

She snips off a few wires, unscrews the panel of a nearby outlet to shove them into the electrical socket, then steps back. She crosses the room with quick, sure steps, stopping only when she reaches the other end. And then she crosses her arms and waits.

The Gamemakers are baffled.

She sees them eye her, talking to each other behind the forcefield as if they think she's lost her mind. After all, from their perspective, she's just wasted her allotted time by playing with wire. She doesn't have to wait very long to change that perspective though.

The contraption starts shuddering in the corner. The electrical current that is running through it, now that it's been connected to the outlet, is quickly overriding the capacity that the wire has. This particular wire can only take so much current before it shatters – something that she is banking on.

She waits with baited breath, hoping that this works. It's been a long time since she's built one of these in a student lab back home.

But – it does, exceptionally so. It works so well that nearly all the Gamemakers jump up in shock when the rattling contraption starts smoking. No one can predict the way it suddenly explodes, metal parts ricocheting into the walls with a vengeance. The noise travels throughout the room, echoing loudly as it leaves a smoky shadow on the wall.

The Gamemakers turn to gape at her.

Elara Winston has just built a bomb, and they don't know whether she's insanely dangerous or a total idiot. She doesn't really care anymore though.

With a smirk, she takes a dramatic bow and turns to leave. As she does, she calls back, "You might want to get a fire extinguisher before that thing catches fire."

She doesn't linger to watch the Gamemakers run around heeding her words, though she is quietly amused at the panicked way they chatter behind the forcefield, bickering back and forth and waving their hands in earnest.

She chuckles to herself as she heads to the elevator, rolling her shoulders. For the first time since the Reaping, she feels as though she might actually have a chance, and that is a very good feeling indeed.

* * *

The training scores air later that evening, and Elara is shocked when she sees her score. Gloss gets a ten and so does she. Back during her first Games, she'd scored a five, but back then, she hadn't made a bomb and detonated it in front of a group of Gamemakers.

"What the hell did you do?" Gloss asks her later that night when they meet on the rooftop. He looks bewildered. She tries not to take offense. This is Gloss, after all, and he's a trained killer who knows his way around a blade. She is certainly not on the same level as he is, so the fact that she managed to go toe to toe with his training score has surely baffled him for hours. She can already picture his perplexed expression as he had watched the screen and saw her score come up beside her picture. With a smirk, she leans against the railing and shrugs.

He gives her an insistent look that screams his impatience, and she chuckles, "I made something."

She can't help but drag this out. She so rarely beats Gloss at his own game, after all.

He crowds near her, pressing into her back and caging her against the railing. "Tell me," he demands, and slides his hand around her waist.

Elara smirks wider. As way of explanation, she murmurs, "Back in school, we went to the lab one day and one of my teachers taught us how to make a bomb out of simple materials."

Gloss freezes as her words sink into him. He leans around her to give her a look, brows furrowed, eyes piercing, and hisses, "You blew up a bomb in front of Gamemakers? Are you insane?"

Elara gives him a wry smile. "Don't you know how insane I am by now?"

For a long moment, he just stares at her with those fierce eyes, and then he scoffs and mutters, "…Yes, but you hide it well most days."

She laughs.

Laying his chin on her shoulder, Gloss muses, "So you know how to make bombs. I didn't know that."

She hums, leaning back against him and enjoying the warmth of his hands around her body. He brings her closer as she surrenders her weight to his, and into the night sky, she tells him, "It's quite simple, really, if you know what you're doing."

He thumbs over her hip and lowly murmurs, "…Is it weird that I think that's kind of sexy?"

At his words, Elara snorts in amusement and turns her head to look up at him. His eyes flash down at her and she smirks.

"You think everything is sexy, Gloss," she tells him, in a tone that makes it seem like she pities him for it. In fact, she feels quite the opposite, and he knows it.

He smiles predatorily and says, "Everything _you_ do, maybe. It's frankly annoying at this point."

She raises her eyebrows. "Annoying?" she asks, not sure she follows where he's going with this.

But he merely chuckles lowly and leans in to press his mouth to hers, kissing her slow and steady before drawling, "Yes, annoying. I want to have you all the time. Every time I see you, I want to bend you over and claim you. I think I'll want you till the day I die, Winston."

Shivers roils through her at the mental image that his words paint, as well as the way her name sounds in the dulcet tones of his voice. He only uses her surname when he's teasing her or when he wants her very badly. She has a feeling she knows which of the two is the reason for its usage now.

She turns in his arms and lets him draw her closer, leaning in to kiss him. He sinks into her kiss with a groan and shucks his hands beneath her shirt, palming the bare skin of her waist with a throaty chuckle.

"Wildcat," he calls her, and then winces when she proceeds to bite his bottom lip in retribution. Glowering, he pulls back.

But Elara Winston only smiles slowly at him and reaches down to grasp his hand and pulling him towards the shadows on the other side of the rooftop. And Gloss – well, he has an unhealthy aptitude for letting her get him into trouble. He follows only too eagerly, and relishes in every way she proceeds to prove her wildness to him.


	34. That might explain the cruelty of fate?

**Chapter Thirty Four | That might explain the cruelty of fate?**

"_Love's heralds should be thoughts,_

_Which ten times faster glides than the sun's beams_

_Driving back shadows over low'ring hills."_

_2.5, 4-6 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_When she's with him, she forgets. She forgets all the silly inconveniences of her lifestyle. She forgets that she misses being in District 5 with her sister. She forgets that, the night before, intimacy had made her cringe. She forgets it all, even the pieces of herself that she thought she'd never forget – the core of herself – that stays with a person no matter what comes in and alters everything else._

_Gloss's hands are gentle and (dare she say it?) loving. She is once again taken aback at the divide in his personality, the way he goes from being a brutal Career to this soft man as if in the blink of an eye. The more she witnesses the transformation, the more she craves it. It doesn't matter how many times they've been in this very room, on this very bed, taking part in this very act; she cannot get enough of him._

_She watches the way he slowly undoes the buttons of her shirt, unclasping them with one hand as he hovers above her. His face in inches away, if that. Every other moment, he leans down to kiss her, but his kisses are brief and poignant, and he breaks them quickly. She doesn't know what game he's playing tonight, but it feels very sublime._

_When he's finished with the buttons, he flips her shirt open to reveal the gentle curve of her bra. Black, with a border of velvet trimming over the top. It's overall a rather plain article, but his eyes still flash curiously as his fingertips trace the soft velvet. Elara holds back a smile and just watches him._

"_It's strange," he whispers after a moment. She thinks he's talking about her choice in undergarments at first and raises an eyebrow, until he catches her eye and murmurs, "I've undressed you a hundred times, but it still feels like the first."_

_She releases a breath that she hadn't realized she was holding, and stares at him. There's an emotion in those hazel eyes of his that she never thought she'd ever see there. In any other moment, it might have been difficult to place it with any precision, but…here amidst this act of intimacy, it isn't so very challenging to see the love that blossoms through his gaze. It isn't difficult to understand the cadences of it as it blisters through the spaces between them._

_Love? What a thought. And yet…_

_Elara hums, feeling rather indulgent as she lays against the pillows with him above her like this, and murmurs, "Not for me."_

_He raises an eyebrow at her soft contradiction, eyes blazing now with curiosity as he settles himself above her form. One leg slips between hers, knee bent as he rests his head against his hand and props his elbow by the pillow. His voice is puzzled when he asks, "What do you mean?"_

_She exhales with a smile and playfully reminds him, "When you first undressed me, I was so nervous I thought I was going to have a heart attack."_

_At this, Gloss laughs. His expression turns amused as he tilts his head, no doubt recalling their first night together. After a brief pause, he admits, "Mmm…I thought you were afraid of me." Then, cringing playfully, he adds, "Not very good for the alibi, you know."_

_Elara bites her lip, smiling broadly as her hands smooth over his bare chest. His tanned skin glows in the dim light; a sculpted Adonis. He is beautiful, and he's only half undressed._

"_The second time…I think I was too tipsy to be nervous," she tells him with a chuckle, and his eyes gleam with amusement. Then, fingertips dancing over his collar, she hesitantly murmurs, "And by then, I'd already experienced what it was like to be with a client. In comparison, being with you was…" she pauses, wrinkling her nose thoughtfully before sighing, "It was warm and gentle."_

_He studies her silently for a long moment, and she wonders if she's crossed a line by bringing her clients into the conversation. It's strange, how easy it is to talk to him. How the horrors of their lives are acknowledged with such simplicity. Sometimes, she forgets that the subject is still technically taboo, regardless of their connection._

_With a short laugh, Elara quickly breaks the silence to add, "The third time, I thoroughly enjoyed myself."_

_Gloss hums, mouth tilting up at her confession, and brushes a strand of her hair off her cheek. In a smirking tone, he repeats, "Thoroughly?"_

_Elara sends him a smile that makes his heart stutter in his chest, though he won't admit it for the world._

_He pauses, thinking back to her previous words, and sighs. The sharp desire that had bolstered through him only minutes before now fades to a dull craving that he pushes aside, for now. Instead of focusing on it, he merely rolls onto his back, pulling his arm beneath his head as he slowly muses, "I've never asked, but…did you enjoy our first night?"_

_He keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling. For some reason, the question feels too important to look at her directly. Perhaps he is afraid of what he might find in her gaze. Maybe he thinks he'll see some shard of reluctance, or dissatisfaction, or some such emotion that he does not want to acknowledge. His memories of their first night together are clear in his mind. He recalls everything, down to the last detail. Her nervous energy, her shallow breaths as he had slowly pulled her clothes off and viewed her for the first time…_

_He remembers his own desire too, pressing fiercely through his body. He remembers trying to temper it as much as possible, trying to put her own desire first. He had been overly conscious of the fact that his sister had gone through the same thing, this forced prostitution. _ _To take someone into you, not only emotionally but physically too…and to do it for the first time, with no prior experience or expectations, with a complete stranger who had bought you for that very reason…_

_He inhales deeply and finally turns his head to look at her. He's a little surprised to see that her eyes have softened, and that she is smiling quietly. He is struck at the sight of her, and at the thought that plucks through his mind in that moment._

_Elara Winston is beautiful._

_Her wry, sarcastic smiles are enough to turn his heart into a wild, tempestuous thing, but – this gentle expression has an even greater effect on him. He hadn't thought that was possible._

"_I enjoyed it," she whispers to him after several long moments, and he feels himself release a breath at her words, relieved. She chuckles at him, eyes shining, before quietly telling him, "It was more than I could have asked for. I was nervous, but…you were so gentle, and being with you like that was like nothing I'd ever felt before."_

_It had been her first time, after all. He had taken her hand and introduced her to a world that she hadn't even known existed. And yes, that world is dark and frightening sometimes – her clients are a part of it too, and it is not always pleasant or beautiful – but everything is different when she's with him. Everything._

_Gloss stares at her, drinking her in as if he's seeing her for the first time. That unspoken emotion drives through his gaze again. Elara studies it silently, feeling her heart ache within her. If only they could take that emotion down from the pedestal in which they have put it on. To admit what is in one's heart is never an easy thing, but in their position, it is altogether impossible. They can't be in love; they do not possess the freedom that love requires._

"_Did you enjoy it, or was I too inexperienced?" she wonders suddenly, her voice bold and unafraid of his answer. As always, her curiosity gets the better of her._

_Still, the question makes him pause, mainly because he is not expecting it. Their first night had been for her, not him. In truth, he had been doing a service for her; taking mercy on an innocent girl who was about to be sacrificed to the underbelly of society. He had felt desire for her, of course, but he'd tempered it as much as he could for her sake._

_At his silence, Elara feels a burst of awkwardness. She hadn't known what to expect from the question, but she had figured that he'd enjoyed their first night at least a little bit. It seems that perhaps she is wrong about that. The thought makes her twist her lips and turn her eyes away from his._

"…_I guess I should have expected that," she laughs, but it sounds strained._

_Gloss stares at her. He opens his mouth to respond, but to be honest, he isn't entirely sure what he means to say. Her question had been surprising. This entire conversation is surprising, in fact. He hasn't anticipated any of it._

_Looking at her closely, Gloss sighs and pushes himself up. He rolls onto his side, nestling once more against the warmth of her body and grumbling, "Don't put words into my mouth, Winston. I never said I didn't enjoy it."_

_Elara raises an eyebrow at him and points out, "You didn't say anything at all."_

_He pauses again, then heaves out a grumbling sigh and tells her, "I was more focused on making sure you were comfortable than on my own satisfaction. I watched Cashmere go through the same thing. During the first year of her victory, she spent more time in the Capitol than she did in District 1. I guess…I wanted to make sure you experienced what intimacy could be, if it's real."_

_It's her turn to stare. Though his explanation is hesitant, his words are sincere. She watches the corner of his mouth tilt up into a smile. He leans closer to her and murmurs, "But I did enjoy it…even though you were so skittish."_

_Elara pushes him playfully and refutes, "I was not! That was your fault, anyway." He raises an eyebrow and she explains simply, "You're Gloss Augustine. Your reputation precedes you."_

_He smirks, eyes dipping over her mussed up form as he leans even closer. His lips barely graze hers when he replies, "So what you're saying is that you weren't nervous at all – you were just shaking with excitement to see me naked."_

_She laughs and hooks a leg around his waist, pulling him flush against her. Even though they're still wearing clothes, it feels divine to have his weight over her. She thinks it's just as divine to have him smiling at her like that, too._

"_Well," she hedges, "I've seen you naked more times than I can count now, and I do have to admit that you're a fine specimen, Gloss."_

_She shouldn't stoke his ego, but it is true._

_He chuckles and quips, "Naturally."_

_Then, hooking his finger beneath the strap of her bra, he pulls it over her shoulder and leans down to kiss the bare skin of it. If her breath hitches in her throat, neither of them mentions it, but the smirk he sends her as he starts kissing his way down her body makes it clear that he hadn't missed her reaction._

_He rarely misses anything, when it comes to Elara Winston, but at this point, he hardly thinks that is surprising._

* * *

Ignatius had been true to his word when he told Elara that he would transform her for these Games. He's pulled out all of the stops this time. Dressed to the nines for the interviews tonight, Elara is worlds different from the vagabond Victor from District 5 that she usually is. She looks regal and powerful.

"You're dynamite, darling!" are Ignatius's words as he walks around her figure, grinning broadly from ear to ear. Dynamite is a good word to describe her gown, as well as the way she wears it.

The whole thing is a silvery blue that glimmers whenever she moves, as if she's just stepped out of the enormous lake that trails around her district. It seems to drip with water that isn't really water, but the glimmering fabric certainly does a good job in appearing as if it has droplets sprinkling over the entirety of it. The skirts are a heady mixture of chiffon and satin. They drop to the floor and hang just above her stiletto heels, which peek out beneath the hem. At her lower back, the fabric is gathered and falls down into the barest hint of a trail that brushes against the floor every time she moves. But her favorite part of the gown is the straps.

They aren't straps, really, but rather gossamer fabric that swoops around her upper arms just below her shoulders. The corset is tight and binds itself to her body in a restricting manner, holding the dress to her form. The ornamental sleeves are decorative only. They wouldn't hold the thing up all on their own.

"You look like a water spirit," Ignatius tells her, crossing his arms as he studies the wavy hair and bright eyes that blink back at him. She's wearing minimal make-up and her hair is down. In this lighting, it looks more red than brown, offsetting the blue of the dress in a way that he thinks is superb.

Elara smooths her hands over the skirts and haltingly laughs. She can't claim to have ever appreciated dressing up before. It isn't in her nature to enjoy the whole process of getting ready for an event, despite the way Ignatius has tried to amp her up for it over the years. This time, though, she has to admit that she looks incredible. Without Ignatius's help, she doubts she'd be able to pull this look off.

"Thank you, Ignatius," she tells him, her voice far more genuine that it usually is. There is no sarcastic drawl to her words or any exasperated lilt to her tone. Ignatius blinks at her as if he's surprised by her sincerity, and she feels subtly guilty about the way she's treated him over the years. It's funny, how it takes a threat upon your own life to realize things like that.

He smiles warmly at her and reaches out to pat her arm. "You're very welcome, Elara. Are you ready?" He glances down at his watch and tuts, "You should head down. I've put too much work into your look for you to be late."

She inhales and says, "You're probably right."

He winks at her. "I usually am."

She shakes her head at him and takes her leave, lifting her skirt just in case she manages to stumble over the hem. Harley is waiting for her in the living room, dressed up in a suit that has glimmering black lapels. He's got a flower stuck into the pocket, and upon studying it for half a moment, Elara realizes that it's a mountain laurel. The flowers grow all over District 5 like weeds, sprouting from the banks of the lake and down through the streets. It is an instant reminder of home, and for the span of a second, her breath is taken away at the image it produces.

The glittering water that surrounds District 5, the grey smoggy roads lined with cobblestone, the gloomy skies that pour out rain, the lush green hills that roll beyond the edges of the city, far beyond the Grid and the power plants and the factories…

Elara swallows down a wave of homesickness that comes to her abruptly. She's been homesick before, during her long stays in the Capitol, yearning for the familiarity of her district and the sights and sounds of her city. But now it seems all the more potent, because back then, she knew she would see District 5 again. She knew she would walk those streets and see the faces of the people she's known all her life and feel the familiar touch of the rain upon her face.

Now, she doesn't know if she'll ever step foot in that place again.

Harley gives her a brief, harrowing smile, as if he knows what she is thinking and why she is staring at the mountain laurel with such desperate eyes. He holds out his arm for her and, as she haltingly takes it, he clears his throat and tells her, "You look lovely, Elara."

She swallows thickly, but somehow manages to chuckle and murmur, "…So do you, Harley."

She's never felt much camaraderie towards her district partner in all the years since her victory, but as they walk down to the ground floor together, it almost feels as though they are far more connected than ever before. They are, after all, the only two people from District 5 in this whole damnable city, and that has to mean something.

When they arrive at the interviews, most of the Victors are already there. There is already a line forming that spans District 1 through 12, though some of the other Victors have not yet made their way down. As Elara passes Katniss and Peeta, she gives them both a little nod. It isn't returned, of course, though Peeta does give her a little smile even though they've only exchanged a few brief words. When she passes Johanna, she makes sure to smirk widely at her and the very obvious tree references in her brown dress, which makes her friend glower heartily back with crossed arms and an unimpressed expression. And – when she glances up ahead and her eyes lock onto Gloss's, well. The way he's looking at her says everything that needs to be said.

Some of the other Victors have formed groups and are chatting to each other as they wait for the interviews to begin, so it isn't all that surprising when Gloss breaks the line to stride over to her. His eyes are piercing and seem to pin her to the floor. She looks up at him, eyes locked and chin tilted up, and watches as his gaze dips over her figure from head to heels.

After a moment, he lowly murmurs, "You're beautiful."

Elara immediately chuckles, raising a wry eyebrow. "Am I?" she asks, even though she knows she is. She rarely feels beautiful in the gowns that Ignatius stuffs her into, but this time, he's gone above and beyond his usual designs. She has to admit that she feels as lovely as Gloss seems to think she is.

He smiles at her, and the corners of his eyes crinkle at the movement. His gaze glimmers at her, his hazel eyes more pronounced as a result. It makes her chest feel warm. He rarely smiles with such sincerity and it takes her breath away.

Moving to stand beside her, Gloss chuckles, glancing down at her as they face the line of Victors. A beat of silence passes between them before he says, "Did my sister give you as much hell the other day as I think she did?"

Elara snorts at the question and gives him a dry look. "We both know how protective she is of you."

He grunts in agreement and mutters, "That's the bad part about being the younger one."

Elara nudges him in the side and glances at his form. He's always looked good in a suit. She's seen him in enough photoshoots to know how well he can pull off the classy ambiance required for such expensive clothes, but tonight he seems even more handsome. He seems to fit the suit as if it was meant for him alone to wear – which, she supposes, it was. The Victors' stylists are nothing if not original, and their custom designs are quick to become trends throughout the city.

Gloss catches her staring and reaches up to straighten his jacket. The corner of his mouth tilts up into an amused smirk. "You look like you want to tear my clothes off, Winston."

Her eyes dart up to clash into his, and she pulls her lips back into a predatory smirk that makes him pause. Shivers spiral through him at the sight of her expression and the obvious sheen of lust that he can clearly see captured in her blue eyes. At once, memories of her hovering over him as she takes him inside of her rampage through his mind. He's had her so many times, in so many ways, that he sometimes feels as though he should be used to his desires by now, but he never is.

He swallows, clearing his throat and muttering, "Stop staring at me like that, Elara."

She raises an eyebrow and murmurs, "Why, am I making you uncomfortable?"

He snorts and lowly drawls, "Uncomfortable isn't the word I would use."

She laughs softly and crosses her arms with a hum. Her eyes slice over him in an almost idle manner, but he knows that there is nothing idle about the yearning that perforates his body. He knows she feels it too. He'd have to be blind not to see it there, lingering in the spaces between them.

"Will you come to me tonight?" she asks him quietly, so softly that he barely even hears her. These are not words she wants anyone overhearing, and in a room full of Victors, escorts, and Capitol cameramen, they have to be subtle.

He breathes out hard and shifts, stuffing his hands into his pockets so as to crush down the desire to reach for her. His eyes catch hers, and he hoarsely whispers, "You know we're splitting up in the arena. We can't be seen together on the night before the games."

His voice gives away the despair he feels at this, as do his eyes, which flicker between hers as he watches her reaction. He'd like nothing more than to hold her through the night and pretend that tomorrow, they will not be going into an arena that might very well bring about their end. But he is used to this feeling, this crush of despair, this longing that smashes through him with such potency. He has felt it many times in the past, when their goodbyes had lingered in his thoughts for days and sometimes weeks. When their partings had haunted him throughout months of absences and loneliness.

Elara glances over at one of the screens that are set up along the wall. Caesar is on stage now, and he's speaking to the crowd as if each member of it is an old friend that he knows very well. As he begins to introduce the evening's entertainment and the topics that will be discussed, Elara turns to Gloss and murmurs, "…It's been a while since we've made use of that closet on the third floor."

The words seem to take him by surprise. Gloss stares at her with raised eyebrows, half amused by her bold suggestion but mostly swept up in it. The desire that he's trying to trample down swells up again, catapulting into his chest with such urgent yearning that he can't stop the shivers from edging along his spine.

He pauses only a second before hastily murmuring, "Nine o'clock?"

Elara grins, and he feels himself grinning back before he can stop that, too. She chuckles and whispers, "I'll try to move the brooms out of the way."

He laughs, wanting nothing more than to drag her into him and kiss her. It is only through great willpower that he refrains. Instead, he merely says, "Wear that dress."

She purses her lips to stop her grin from spreading over her face at his request. He sees the hint of her amusement though, and smirks at her before loping back to his place in the line. She stares after him longingly, feeling a rush of excitement churn through her at the thought of being with him soon. He reaches Cashmere's side just in time, and barely has a moment to glance over his shoulder at her before his sister is pulling him with her onto the stage, and they disappear behind the curtain.

Elara sighs and moves to where Harley is standing. Ahead of her, Finnick sends her a look, and she rolls her eyes at him. Out of everyone here, he knows the particular grief that comes with falling for a fellow Victor, but she isn't in the mood for heartfelt words right now. She's far too busy turning to the screen, watching Caesar wave his hands dramatically at the sibling duo from District 1, who has managed to make the entire crowd roar with applause.

Cashmere and Gloss have always been popular in the Capitol. They have a legacy that no one else does. Their status as siblings has vaulted them into territory that even the most well known celebrity does not have. And, of course, it certainly helps that they are both attractive and powerful, from the Capitol's favorite district.

"And here they are," Caesar greets, happily shaking their hands with a wide, excited grin. "Have a seat!" He gestures to the couch, and Gloss waits for his sister to sit down before he sits beside her. No one fails to take note of the way their hands immediately clasp together; a silent message of unity.

"Now," Caesar says, shifting a little in his chair as he fixes his posture and gets comfortable. The grin that he had just been wearing falls away into a more serious expression, but even though his eyes flicker with solemnity, it is clear that Caesar is just as excited as any other Capitolite. Whether he's eager for the Hunger Games or just because he's got the siblings from District 1 on stage at the same time, Elara isn't sure, Either way, she's not overly impressed. She knows the look in Caesar's eyes too well to be impressed by it. It's a look that always wants something – some sort of manipulation that it not easy to refute when you're a Victor with only the barest amount of freedom.

"How are you two feeling about reentering the arena? I know this must have come as a shock to you," Caesar starts off, leaning forward to hear their response.

Cashmere and Gloss share a glance, and then she turns to give Caesar a small smile before saying, "Well, like all the others, we're really sad to go back into the Games. It's been a tearful last few days, Caesar."

At this, Caesar raises his eyebrows as if he's surprised, and asks, "How so?"

Cashmere gives out a slightly strained laugh and shrugs. "The Capitol has become our home. My brother and I love this city with everything that we are, Caesar. And…to think that we may not live to see it again…" she trails off, lifting a hand to artfully swipe at her eye. Her voice is a little thicker when she adds, "And we've made so many friends here, you know? It's not easy to say goodbye."

Gloss reaches over to lay a hand on his sister's shoulder, and Cashmere sniffs a bit as she gives him a tearful smile. The crowd seems stricken by her words; they fall silent with a shuddering wave of sorrow, as if they think Cashmere is speaking directly to each of them.

Caesar gives her a sad look and sighs, "I understand, my dear. You and your brother will be sorely missed." The crowd responds to that with a few cheers.

"Thank you, Caesar," Gloss says, sounding as sincere as ever. He shakes his head and tells him, "We're not going by choice." Then, turning to address the crowd, he says louder, "You are our family, and I don't see how anyone could love us better."

The crowd _aaahhs_ at his words. The noise sweeps through the room like a cacophony of sound, and Caesar puts a hand to his heart and murmurs, "That's so sweet…so sweet." Then he glances over at Cashmere, who is brushing away more tears, and he frowns and asks, "Are you alright, dear?"

She laughs haltingly and says, as if embarrassed, "I'm sorry Caesar. I'm just so overwhelmed by this. None of us expected that this would happen, and Gloss and I…we don't just have to say goodbye to all of our friends, but also to each other."

Gloss draws his sister closer to his side, comforting her silently as the crowd mournfully hushes down. Cashmere's words are not tossed haphazardly into existence, but rather carefully chosen. Her connection to Gloss is the best ammunition they have. Playing upon the heartstrings of this crowd, and all the Capitolites watching the interviews from their homes, is essential. What better way to do that than to tearfully say goodbye to her own brother on live television?

"We've been through so much together. I just can't believe that we're about to be torn apart like this," Cashmere cries, wiping her tears away even as more flow. In truth, her tears aren't as false as some of the other Victors might believe, but they are definitely exaggerated for the purpose of this crowd. Cashmere is too strong to cry in front of everyone like this without a reason.

Elara watches this from the screen, arms crossed as she frowns. She watches her friend and lover as they artfully spin the room in their favor. It isn't so very hard to do, it seems. It could be because they're District 1, but it seems as though the crowd is different tonight compared to how it normally is. The people seem more prone to sorrow than excitement, as if they really are sad to see their Victors go.

Gloss says a few more things to the crowd, once more addressing them personally. He's got a certain charm, when he wants to use it that is, that utterly sweeps people away. To say that he's taking advantage of that now would be an understatement. Every Victor is going to press their advantages tonight. There is still a little bit of hope, after all, that the Games might be cancelled. That, perhaps, the Capitolites will not be able to bring themselves to send their Victors to their deaths after all.

Elara crosses her arms as she watches Cashmere and Gloss stand up as they finish their interview. The two of them head over to the other side of the stage, where there is a raised section for the Victors to stand on once their interviews are done. As the siblings step onto it, Brutus is called onto the stage, then Enobaria, then Beetee. Elara waits with baited breath as the minutes pass her by. Her body is tight with nerves. She's been to her fair shares of interviews during her time as a celebrity, but none of them have ever felt like this. There is a cocktail of dread that succors through her, made all the worse because she knows what Caesar is going to ask her. It's what he always asks her.

Finally, and far too soon, her name is called.

"And now, ladies and gentleman, please welcome Miss Elara Winston to the stage!" Caesar exclaims, waving his hand dramatically as if he's a magician trying to conjure her with a twist of his wrist.

"You look gorgeous tonight, my dear!" Caesar compliments her, reaching out a hand as she approaches. Elara lets him take hold of her hand and lead her over to the couch, where he gestures for her to sit. She does, smiling out at the crowd as she sits across from Caesar. The man in question also take a seat, idly saying, "It's so lovely to see you again, Elara. So lovely."

Elara smooths her skirts out and gives him a wry look. "You're not going to ask if I'm seeing anyone this time, are you? I don't know why you're so obsessed with my love life, Caesar."

Her bold question makes Caesar burst into laughter – a sentiment that the crowd quickly follows. He turns to her with an amused glint in his eye and dramatically puts a hand to his chest. "I just cannot for the life of me fathom why you're still single, my dear." He winks at her, and Elara laughs. Caesar leans forward and adds, "But since you've brought the subject up…?"

Elara laughs at him, sounding far more exasperated than she actually feels. In truth, she has led him towards that question, despite her usual annoyance whenever he asks her about this topic. This time though, everything is different. She doesn't want her interview to be forgettable. She's a Victor and she knows how to work with a Capitol crowd – what they want to hear, how they want to hear it. She may not be as popular as the Career Victors, but Elara Winston has become a name of its own in these streets, for good or for bad.

She gives Caesar a look that makes him chuckle, and a moment later, she drawls, "There is someone…someone who it'll be hard to say goodbye to."

This tidbit of information seems to surprise Caesar, who is so used to her finding ways to avoid such questions entirely. His eyebrows jolt up in shock. The crowd, too, leans forward in interest, wondering just who has managed to capture Elara Winston's guarded heart.

"…Well, tell us who this person is," Caesar prods, looking far more eager than he has any right to. He's made it his sole mission these last few years to get to the bottom of Elara's love life. Now that she's being open with it for once and not shrouding it in mystery, he'd on the edge of his seat.

He quickly holds the microphone out for her, and she pauses thoughtfully before saying, "He's…frustrating, and very single-minded, Caesar. He drives me insane."

The wry twist of words has Caesar laughing aloud. "Insane in a good way, I hope?"

Elara gives him a secretive smile and shrugs demurely, which makes Caesar turn to give the crowd a suggestive expression.

"And is he here tonight, in the crowd?" Caesar asks her. His words hit the truth of the matter very close, but they still miss the mark. The man she's talking about is here tonight, but he is not a part of the crowd that spans in front of her.

She turns to Caesar and murmurs, "…Yes. He's here tonight."

Caesar gives her a sorrowful look and reaches forward to take her hand in what he probably means to be a comforting hold. She graciously takes the offering with a small smile and says, "This is the last time we'll be having this conversation, you know Caesar? It's the last time any of us will be on this stage."

The crowd gives out a sad sound that weaves over the room like a mountain breeze wafting down from above. Caesar frowns at her, appearing just as sad as the rest of the crowd.

"Then let's make the most of it, shall we?" he asks, turning to the crowd in hopes of uplifting their spirits. Elara's dour words have certainly made an impact though, and the room is still hushed despite his optimism.

"You've had to say goodbye to your sister too, if I'm not mistaken. How did she react to the news of this Quell?" Caesar asks, clearing his throat as he tries to shift the conversation into other waters.

Elara pauses at the question, her chest tight at the reminder of Amelia. She takes a moment to respond, but when she does, she has successfully grappled with her nerves and her voice is clear and even.

"Not well, Caesar," she responds, lifting her chin and spearing him a look that is both challenging as well as sad. "When I die, she'll be all alone. No one will be left to look after her."

The frankness of her response seems to take Caesar aback. He stares at her with awkward hesitance as the crowd quakes with sorrow, their voices rising with it. He hurries to say, "But you might not die! There's always a chance that you'll be able to go back to your sister and that man you've spoken about."

He gives her a hasty smile, no doubt hoping that he's successfully swayed the crowd out of their grief, but Elara only shakes her head with a bitter laugh.

"Even if I did survive, it wouldn't matter…" she murmurs, and trails off as she looks down at her hands. She swallows thickly, fingers blanched white from the way she's twisting them in her lap. She hesitates because she wants to rile the crowd up, make Caesar ask her why it wouldn't matter. It's a calculated move meant to dramatize what she's about to say…but it's also because she's just a little bit afraid.

She isn't sure if she should say the next words. If she should play this particular hand or keep it to herself. She knows it's the best ammunition she has, and she should use it for that reason alone, but – will Gloss be angry with her for it? Will it perhaps backfire on her, should things go awry?

She's not sure, but it's too late to change course now. Not when Caesar is leaning in and asking what she means. Not when she opens her mouth to shakily say, "The man I'm…I'm in love with. If I win the Games, that man won't be here anymore. Because he isn't in the crowd, Caesar." She inhales slowly and murmurs, "He's a Victor."

The room immediately gets swept up in the uproar of her words, which had been so softly uttered, so shakily construed. There is a sincerity to them that the crowd catches onto, and their reaction is everything she had been hoping for. People erupt into chattering noise, outraged at the mere notion of such a love dying before it has the chance to grow. Their outrage is Elara's boon. She sits in the midst of it, staring out into the sea of people with eyes that are bluer than normal, made so from the tears that well in their depths. She's quite sure that the cameras have honed in on her face. She hopes they have. She wants these people to know that her sorrow is real, that her words ring with truth. That, if they allow these Games to happen, then her love might very well die – and her along with him.

Caesar clears his throat and stands up, holding out his hands to the crowd as if he's hoping that the action might placate them. It does, eventually, but only after several long minutes, and only when he loudly says, "Elara Winston, District 5! Let's give her a round of applause!"

He reaches for her hand and bows over it, kissing the back of it as she stands up. And even though Elara isn't usually the type to play a crowd in such a way, for she much prefers to run through interviews as quickly as possible, she takes her time walking to the other end of the stage where the other Victors stand. She lifts her hand to the crowd as if showcasing some sense of unity that does not truly exist, but – they love it. Even though Caesar is busy introducing Harley to the stage, the crowd is still reeling from Elara's abrupt and grievous message.

She steps up to the platform to the back of the stage. As she does, her eyes lift and clash with Gloss's, who is staring at her with an intensity that nearly makes her falter. Most of the Victors are staring at her, so it isn't discriminating that his attention is on her, but it still makes her heart beat quickly in her chest. He doesn't look angry – just intense, as if he wants to sweep everyone away and go to her. He doesn't of course. Not yet.

She is forced to break their connection as she turns back to the audience. Finnick, who is standing beside her, turns to give her a nod and a pat on her back.

"That was very dramatic of you, Elara," he murmurs out of the corner of his mouth. "I think I saw a few people bawling their eyes out."

She snorts quietly and whispers, "I told Panem that I love him. I haven't even said those words to _him,_ and yet here I am, using our relationship for sponsors." She says the words like they're disgusting. A part of her regrets doing what she did, but she knows that it's too late to take those words back. The dice have already been cast, and she can do nothing now but allow them to run their course.

Beside her, Finnick sighs. "I did the same thing. To Annie."

It's true, at least partially. He had used his relationship with Annie to make his interview more dramatic. People had been riveted by his words and the romantic nature of them. But is it the same?

"But she knows you love her," Elara hoarsely murmurs, thinking back to all the times those words had been at the tip of her tongue – and all the times she had forced them down, afraid of where they might take them. Afraid of what she might feel, what new blend of grief she might experience, if such honesty had been allowed into the spaces between them.

Finnick just chuckles, eyes drifting out into the crowd sightlessly, and says in return, "He knows you love him too. You don't need to say it out loud to know that."

Elara doesn't look at him, but she does allow a tiny smile to shine through at his words. Inside, she knows that Finnick is right. And yet…

The Capitol has taken so much from them already. She wonders if it will ever end, or if perhaps another world waits for them beyond the arena. A world where they might be able to live without the ties that bind them to this city. A world where the words she has just said could be spoken aloud without fear.

A world on the edge of the desert, that is full of him.


	35. I'll move from bad to good, thereof

**A/N: This chapter is basically all shameless smut minus the flashback scene. If that bothers you, you know the drill :)**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Five | I'll start on bad and end on good, thereof,**

"_Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;_

_Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;_

_Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears._

_What is it else? A madness most discreet,_

_A choking gall, and a preserving sweet."_

_1.1, 189-193 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_It's strange, looking at Gloss through a television screen. He is a celebrity first and foremost – a Victor from District 1 who the Capitol adores – but she is more accustomed to seeing him in a more casual setting. Typically, without clothes on._

_Not tonight. Tonight, he is dressed to the nines, looking debonair and utterly gorgeous in a tailored suit. It's a little flamboyant with the usual dosage of over-the-top Capitolite sensibilities, but he still manages to pull it off like no one else can – glittering lapels and all. His sister is at his side, and as always, they make quite a pair. Caesar Flickerman is naturally beside himself._

"_Your latest photoshoot in Capitol Weekly was to die for," he tells Gloss eagerly, leaning in and dazzling the man with a wide grin. "I swear, I ran to Gigi's the moment I saw you in that divine emerald suit because I absolutely had to have it."_

_Gigi's is the largest and most expensive department store in the Capitol. It is frequented by the wealthiest men and women and boasts a plethora of the top stylists and fashion designers in Panem. Whenever their new lines come out, they go to Gigi's first. Recently, Gloss and Cashmere were signed on to their contract. They've both done a number of photoshoots for Gigi's so far, but the Capitol is still going mad with excitement. Apparently, Gigi's stock has gone up dramatically too, probably because they've gotten a hold of two of the most famous Victors in the country to flaunt their wares._

_Gloss laughs a bit at Caesar's words, looking far from uncomfortable. He exudes a natural energy that only makes people love him even more. It certainly makes Caesar love him, anyway._

"_I think you pull the color off a little better," Caesar continues, leaning back with a dramatic sigh, "but I suppose we can't all be gorgeous Victors, can we?" He waves a hand in front of his face and winks at Gloss._

"_It isn't easy being me, Caesar," Gloss replies with just the right amount of tempered confidence. Any more of it and he'd sound arrogant, but even then, the Capitol would probably love him. He can do no wrong._

_Elara snorts at the screen and rolls her eyes, but doesn't look away from him. She's got a bowl of popcorn in front of her – a spur of the moment decision once she saw that the interview was coming up – and brings one to her lips. She chews mechanically, barely even aware of her movements as she watches Caesar laugh at Gloss's words._

_She's so engrossed that Amelia, when she walks through the door, immediately scoffs at her._

"_Really? Is this what you do while I'm at school?" she asks, sounding thoroughly unimpressed with the sight of her sister mooning over the television. She rolls her eyes when Elara doesn't respond, apparently too caught up in Caesar's next question to grace her with an answer. Amelia sighs and falls onto the couch beside Elara, kicking her feet up onto the coffee table and reaching for a handful of popcorn. She shoves it into her mouth rather inelegantly and, as she chews, mutters, "You're so lame. I really don't get it. What the hell does he see in you?"_

_Elara sends her a sharp frown and retorts, "You haven't even met him so how would you know?"_

_It's true. Amelia hasn't technically met Gloss face to face. It isn't as if the Victors are given free rein to visit the other districts. The only people who really travel between the districts of Panem are those who have clearance to do so. The average citizen really has no hope of seeing the rest of Panem, and usually, no desire to._

_Anyway – Amelia hasn't met Gloss, but she has talked to him on the phone plenty of times. Even though he can't come visit Elara whenever he wants to, he can make use of the telephones that are hooked up to the Victor houses. Besides that, Amelia figures that she knows Gloss fairly well just based on his interviews alone. He is a popular Victor and he's always being asked to be interviewed or some such thing._

_She snorts and says, "I know that he's probably the most gorgeous man in the country and that every woman is practically in love with him." The words are so unexpected that Elara swallows the popcorn the wrong way and starts coughing, but it hardly stops Amelia from adding, "Seriously. He could be with literally anyone. He's got the looks, the personality, and the status. And then there's you."_

_Elara laughs incredulously at this. She turns to look at her smart mouthed sister with a gaping mouth. Amelia immediately grimaces at her._

"_See, this is what I'm talking about. Would you please swallow your food, Elara? It's disgusting," she complains, shoving herself to the very end of the couch as if she thinks that her sister has a disease and she doesn't want to catch it._

_Elara glowers at her, swallows the popcorn loudly, and grumbles, "You're such a little shit, Amelia."_

_Her sister smirks and drawls, "I'm just saying it like it is. I mean, look at him."_

_She does, turning her gaze to Gloss as he laughs at something Caesar had said. Cashmere leans in to say something, but Elara is too busy staring at her brother to really hear her. He looks so perfect that it's almost hard to take it. As always, her heart flutters wildly in her chest at the sight of his muscled body and chiseled features. When he smiles like that, it does silly things to her. Her mind drifts to memories of him in her bed with all that tanned skin on display, looking up at her with those eyes that burn with confidence and affection, and she swallows tightly._

_He really is gorgeous._

_She's be lying if she said that she hadn't considered Amelia's perspective prior to this moment. Gloss isn't just handsome – he's got a magnetic way about him that is very forgiving to his occasionally crass personality. And even regardless of that, the Capitol loves his bluntness and his wry sense of humor. He's practically their idol. It would be a lie to claim that she's never wondered what he sees in her. She is, after all, a Victor from District 5 who has been tainted one too many times by endless clients._

_She sends Amelia another edged look for putting these thoughts into her head and shoves another handful of popcorn into her mouth. Amelia just blinks over at the television._

_Caesar is asking Cashmere about her latest work now, and Gloss is turned just so to listen to her response. Cashmere weaves a story about their recent combined photoshoot, which he adds to every once in a while. Their comfortable and familiar way with words has Caesar leaning forward in interest, literally on the edge of his seat as Cashmere tells an amusing little story that had occurred on the last set._

"_You two are golden – golden!" Caesar exclaims at the end of the tale, laughing around his words. "I'm sure Gigi's is very pleased to be working with you."_

"_We're pleased to be working with them, too," Gloss says, and sends Caesar a friendly smile that makes his hazel eyes light up._

_At her side, Amelia dreamily adds, "He's polite, too."_

_Elara grunts sarcastically. Polite isn't exactly a word she'd use to describe Gloss Augustine, but he does know how to win a crowd. Of course he'd be on his best behavior during an interview with Caesar Flickerman._

"_What does he see in you? You're probably the rudest person I know," Amelia sighs breezily, as if she isn't insulting her sister in one breath._

_Elara gives her a look, though it hardly makes Amelia quake with fear._

"_Oh give it a rest, Amelia," she mutters. She pushes the popcorn into her sister's hands, deciding that she isn't really hungry anymore. Amelia doesn't complain as she scoops up a handful of it._

"_Maybe he likes intelligent women," Amelia continues as if she hadn't heard. "I mean, that's pretty much the only thing you've got going for you."_

_Elara groans and pushes her in retribution. "I swear to god if you don't shut up, I will pick you up from school tomorrow and embarrass you in front of all your friends."_

_Amelia whips her head over at her so quickly that it looks like it hurts. "You wouldn't."_

_Elara makes a face at her and says, "I would."_

"_You're so sensitive. I was just kidding," she grumbles, much to Elara's silent amusement._

"_Well how about we stop talking about my nonexistent love life," she tells her sister, and sighs._

_Amelia, though, just gives her a weird look and snorts, "Nonexistent? Every time I see pictures of you two in the Capitol, he looks at you like you're a freaking Goddess. I don't think your love life is nonexistent. Stop complaining."_

_At this, Elara raises an eyebrow at Amelia, crossing her arms as she dryly asks, "Is it so hard to believe that he'd like me, then?"_

_Amelia rolls her eyes. "It's _really_ hard to believe, but I never said I thought he didn't. I'm going to take a shower. This conversation is getting weird."_

_Elara snorts out a laugh as her sister stands up, leaving the popcorn on the table before striding quickly from the room. She looks like she can't leave fast enough, as if the thought of having such a genuine conversation with her sister make her want to vomit. Elara laughs to herself at her antics before turning back to the television. After a moment, she reaches for the popcorn again and gets comfortable, not even bothering to hide the look in her eyes as she studies the features of the man she loves._

_In the doorway, Amelia makes a face at the sight and rolls her eyes. She stands by what she'd said. She really doesn't understand why a man like Gloss would fall for someone like her sister, but then again, she figures she's allowed to wonder at that. She is Amelia Winston, after all, and no one else has the right to judge her sister the way she does._

_With a nod, Amelia steps away. Despite her prior disgust at Elara's mooning eyes, she feels a small smile spread over her mouth as she makes her way upstairs._

* * *

Elara feels a little silly, waiting in a maintenance closet for Gloss. Still dressed to the nines in the custom made gown Ignatius had created for her, she's sitting on one of the small tables that's pressed against the wall. It's a tiny thing, hardly large enough to even hold her weight, but it's better than standing up in her stilettos. Her feet are already aching from standing so long on the stage while the other Victors were interviewed, and besides, she isn't sure when Gloss will come. It's already a little past nine o'clock, which was when he said he'd meet her, and she can't help but chew on her bottom lip as she nervously wonders if he'll even show up at all.

They barely had a chance to say two words to each other in lieu of the fiasco at the end of the interviews. Peeta had dropped a bomb on the audience, claiming that Katniss is pregnant with their child. The entire room, large as it is, had erupted into such outrage that Caesar had been utterly beside himself trying to calm everyone down. Peacekeepers had to come in to settle the room, and even they had a hard time. In wake of the uproar, the Victors had been rushed off the stage by more Peacekeepers and escorted to their individual floors. Elara was far more focused on not tripping indignantly over her gown than finding Gloss in the ensuing chaos. As a result, she isn't entirely sure if he's displeased at her for her interview. She hadn't gotten a good feel for his emotions about it before. The short glance he had given her had only lasted for a few brief moments before she was forced to turn back to the audience.

She sighs and leans back, swinging her legs in front of her and listening to the table creak beneath her weight. One of the lights that hangs overhead flickers every few seconds. The many years spent learning about the basics of electricity and all things that accompany the subject tells her that one of the wires is loose. It's an easy enough fix. Just a quick jostle to ensure that the wire is properly in its socket and it should stop flickering.

She stares at it for a few long minutes that seems like an eternity before pursing her lips and standing up. She's so bored that she might as well fix it before it drives her to insanity.

There's a board of switches by the door. She steps over to it and tests them out until the overhead light turns off. There are two others that control several more lights on the wall. She keeps those ones on and kicks her heels off, dragging the small table directly beneath the overhead light and carefully stepping on top of the surface of it. It shifts a little under her weight, but when it holds steady and doesn't crumble beneath her, she turns her attention to unscrewing the light bulb.

When it comes loose, she stands there for a moment holding the lightbulb in her hand, looking for somewhere to put it while she fiddles with the wire. She's about to just shove it into her cleavage so that she doesn't have to climb down from the rickety table when suddenly the door opens, and Elara turns with a startled inhalation as Gloss quietly enters the small room. He looks just as startled as her when his eyes alight on her figure, but after a moment, dry amusement takes precedence in his expression.

As he shuts the door, he raises an eyebrow at her and drawls, "I'm pretty sure there's a great joke to go along with this scene."

Elara rolls her eyes at him and impatiently gestures for him to step forward. When he does, she shoves the lightbulb into his hands. "Hold this. I've just got to…" she trails off, eyes narrowing as she reaches into the socket and looks for the loose wire. When she finds it, she wiggles it back into place and mutters, "There. Lightbulb please."

She blindly holds her hand out, and Gloss slides it into her grasp and watches as she screws it back it. Once it's in place, she says, "Turn the switch on."

Gloss quips a smile at her and sarcastically murmurs, "Yes ma'am," before stepping away to flick it on. It lights up immediately, with no flickers in sight.

She crosses her arms and nods, "Much better. That was really bothering me – "

The table shifts a little and her balance is displaced. She probably would have fallen had Gloss not steadied her, grasping her legs to keep her where she is. She grabs his shoulders, leaning over him with a startled gasp, which turns into laughter when she realizes how ridiculous this situation is.

"Come down from there before you hurt yourself," Gloss murmurs, sounding exasperated. He grabs her waist and lifts her down from the table, enjoying the press of her body against his a little too much. The feeling is apparently mutual, for Elara doesn't hesitate to wrap her legs around his waist as he lowers her back to earth.

For a moment, they just stare at each other, inches apart. And then, very quietly, Gloss murmurs, "…The man you love, huh?"

She immediately feels herself blush a little, despite her best efforts not to. She shouldn't be surprised that he would bring this up. Her interview had shocked the entire audience, so why not him as well? It isn't as if they've ever exchanged that particular word to each other. Not completely. Not fully.

She pauses, then gives him a wicked smile and whispers, "Mmm…after the interviews, Olive told me that she's very happy for Finnick and I."

Gloss frowns immediately growling, "Finnick? Seriously? I don't know if I'm offended or happy that these people are so stupid."

Elara chuckles, leaning down to kiss him. Against his mouth she says, "Well, Finnick did have that romantic poem he told the audience, about his one true love, so it makes sense that she's assume I was talking about him. You just talked about how the Capitol loves you."

Gloss's immediate reaction is an abrupt, "They _do_ love me – " His second is a low groan when Elara slides down his body and steps back to the floor.

She chuckles at him and pushes his jacket off his shoulders, slowly dropping it to the floor with a swish of fabric. He glowers at her and makes no effort to assist her, even when she slowly pulls his tie off and tosses it to join the jacket, her movements just shy of licentious.

"Let's see…I'm also frustrating, single-minded, and I drive you insane. Did I get that right?" he asks in a low voice, herding her backward until she meets the edge of the table she'd just nearly fallen off of. As he crowds around her figure, caging her against the edge, Elara gives him a smirk that makes his eyes flash. The familiar lure of desire tugs at him, wrenching through his veins like wildfire. She hums, head tilted back, lips very close to his. Her eyes are narrowed shards of blue that pool with heat, and suddenly he'd like very much to see if the rest of her is the same way.

"You do drive me insane," she tells him lowly, her voice just a hum of sound. Her hands drift over his chest, dragging over the expensive fabric of his shirt and lingering on the buttons. She doesn't undo them just yet though, preferring to just enjoy the moment. She might not get another chance like this for a long time. Maybe not ever.

Gloss reaches down to caress her legs, fingers warm against her thighs. Her skirts feel silken beneath his touch. He can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric and can clearly imagine, with much certainty, that the rest of her is equally as soft. With that thought in mind, he reaches up to grasp her waist and lift her onto the table with a sudden display of strength, heaving her abruptly off the floor. He quite enjoys the little gasp she gives him at the move, but instead of making mention of it, he just growls, "I'll have to live up to your description of me, then."

He gives her a sinful smirk and hikes her skirts up, hands smoothing over the bare skin of her legs as he does. The fabric gets caught on his wrists the further up he goes, until the entirety of them are on display for him. Then, he pulls her to the very edge of the table and leans in.

Their breaths are already heavy with dampened desire when he whispers, "Lift your hips."

She does as he says, not looking away from him as he grapples with her underwear and slides it down her thighs. When it gets to her knees, she helps him kick it off and nearly sighs out with pleasure as he smooths his hands over her inner thighs once more, staring at her with a hungry light that definitely makes her feel insane – in the best way possible.

When he drops to his knees in front of her, the twist of it only gets worse.

She presses closer to the edge of the table as he kisses her inner thigh, dragging his tongue over her skin and sighing out against her. The heat of his breath dances over her and makes her swallow thickly. It's nothing compared to the way he spins his touch over her core seconds later though, his movements sure and firm as he laps at her, tonguing over her folds and bringing her into his mouth. He sucks at her, hands tightly clenching around her thighs as she parts her legs for him and leans back on the table. Her hips lift to his mouth and her head falls back, breathing hard as he pushes pleasure through her entire form.

"Gloss…" she murmurs, opening her eyes to look down at her. She can't not look away – the very sight he makes, nestled between her legs like this, makes her crazy. When his eyes flicker up to hers and their gazes lock, she moans again at the sheer desire that turns his hazel eyes darker, like molten honey.

He must see something in her face – some flash of desperation, some inexpressible bliss – for he presses closer. His tongue sinks against her faster, and Elara inhales sharply as shivers roil through her, nearly throwing her back with the fury of her own desires. Her breathing is a ragged mess that tells Gloss more than mere words alone could manage, and he only presses faster as he watches her begin to unravel above him.

He has long ago decided that Elara Winston is utterly gorgeous when she's in the throes of bliss. When she comes, her expression melts with waves of such passion that it grips the whole of him to bear witness to it. And, to know that he is the one who has cultivated this within her, to know that he is the cause of the moans that spill from her parted mouth and the heady shift of her hips as they punctuate her end – it's like nothing he's ever known, and he doubts he'll know the like of it with any other woman.

He watches her, watches the way her fingers grip the edges of the table, the way they blanch white with force. He watches the graceful arch of her body as passion overmasters her and sends it reeling – neck unfurling, breasts curving forward – she's like a paper crane that is being unfolded, piece by piece, the edges smoothed out, the wrinkles glazed over, until every pristine hollow unravels before him, just as immaculate as ever.

He thinks he's never seen someone as beautiful as her. It isn't the physical aspects of her that captures him so profoundly, though she is pleasing to look at with all her fine lines and refined angles. But – there is something more to her that has him falling over and over again, tripping head first into her arms despite every single reservation he has ever had. It is a magnetic thing, a blistering thing. She bewitches him like an enchantress and as she gasps his name and reaches up to tangle her fingers into his hair, Gloss falls willingly under her spell.

He lets her come down from the spin of pleasure, pressing idle kisses to her thighs and slowly making his way up her body. She's still tipped back, and all he wants to do is get her out of the dress that's still covering her figure. He wants skin and warmth and her.

He settles instead for a lingering kiss that he lowers to her still parted mouth, lifting a hand to brush aside a strand of her hair and tucking it behind her ear. There is a strange solemnity to his movements. He gazes at her with almost hesitant eyes, taking in the sight of her and caressing her cheek with his fingertips. He is hesitant because…

He is not sure if they will ever be together again, like this.

Elara slowly opens her eyes, lashes fluttering as she locks her gaze with his and sees his emotions clearly showcased on his face. She lifts a hand to place it over his as it rests on her cheek, and tilts her head to the side to press a slow kiss into his palm. He exhales. Then he purses his lips and lets his forehead drop to hers, and together, they stay like that for several moments before Elara begins to slowly unbutton his shirt.

"…Elara," he breathes, not sure what, exactly, he's going to say. Only he thinks he'd like to do something or say something that might take this sudden hesitance away. Something that might bolster the edges of this moment. Soften them, perhaps, into something less painful.

Because it is painful. There is something poignantly heart wrenching about it. He thought he knew what this pain felt like. Thought he'd already experienced it a thousand times by now from all their bitter goodbyes and lengthy absences. But to his consternation, he suddenly finds that those moments are nothing in comparison to this one. Those moments are bygone memories that were forced upon them, but they always knew that they would see each other again, on another dark night in these dreary streets. They always knew that, though the distance between them was nearly inseverable, it was not unconquerable.

This is nothing like that at all. Despite the plans and the hope for the rebellion, there is still a very good chance that one of them will die in that arena.

Elara pulls his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and familiar musculature. Her fingers trail down his body to undo his belt, and her lips tilt up to capture his. Against them, she whispers, "Don't say a word."

He swallows back a harsh wave of sorrow that threatens to knock him down, and leans forward to grasp the edges of the table as Elara pulls open the belt and unbuttons his trousers. He nearly buries his head against her neck when she shuffles the fabric off of his hips and takes him against her palm. One hand reaches up to his arm as he exhales tightly and stumbles into her. She grasps his bicep as if she means to steady him, but he fears that he might never be steady again. She has a terrible tendency to have that sort of effect on him, but he's never felt it so strongly before.

As she strokes him, she presses her lips to his skin – his shoulder, his neck, and brushes her tongue over his collar and breathes into his hair as if she's trying to memorize every inch of him. His hands begin to move too, slowly unlacing the ties that hold her dress up and sighing out as he pushes the fabric away. It pools at her hips, and when he reaches up to palm her breast, Elara breathes his name with such soft yearning that shivers erupt through the entirety of him.

"I want you," she whispers, voice trembling. He breathes out again at the sound of it.

Drawing back to look at her, Gloss drags a hand over her skin and gives her a small smile, eyes crinkling at the edges.

She smiles back, sadly.

He pulls her to the edge of the table and draws her legs around his waist, pressing into her with a low exhale that quivers with need. They grasp onto each other, limbs tight, fingers clenching, and as he begins to thrust, Elara groans and tips back to better accommodate him. One of his hands moves to her lower back to hold her in place – to keep her exactly as she is, for in this moment, he's never seen her more perfect.

He wants to tell her that he loves her. He wants to hear her say those words too. He wants to say that he'd like to grow old with her, to have her every day like this, to be able to wake up beside her and listen to her drawling sarcasm at all hours even though it sometimes drives him crazy. But…

Sometimes, the spoken word is not as poignant as the unspoken one.

Instead he just loves her now, presses pleasure into her and takes his pleasure too, until they're both gasping into each other and letting their passions overmaster them. And even though the backdrop to their love is not luxurious or fine, even though the room is small and cramped and dusty, and even though they don't have a comfortable bed or soft pillows or fresh sheets –

It doesn't matter; they have each other.


	36. In hopes of summarizing this state

**Chapter Thirty Six | In hopes of summarizing this strange state.**

"_Then love-devouring death do what he dare –_

_It is enough that I may but call her mine."_

_2.6, 7-8 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_The first time Gloss calls her on the telephone, he doesn't know what the hell he's doing. He's had her number for ages now, shoved into the drawer of his nightstand and left there. She'd given it to him on a whim, had laughingly stuffed it into his blazer jacket as if she was pretending that everything between them was new and scintillatingly fresh, despite having been sharing each other's beds for a while. He'd given her an amused look, but hadn't had any intention of actually using her number. It's funny though, because despite this, he hadn't been able to bring himself to throw it away. It's been pressed into his nightstand drawer for months now, blazing up at him whenever he opens it as if the numbers are a minor part of a greater symphony that is yet unfinished._

_The first time he dials the numbers into his phone, he's had a few drinks. Admittedly, it isn't really his best moment. The sound of her voice when she answers is a balm he hadn't known he needed until then, and it lifts the pressing loneliness that shudders at him from all sides within seconds._

"_Hello?"_

_He never knew one word would make him feel so incredibly relieved. He closes his eyes._

"…_Hello?" she asks again when he doesn't respond, sounding wary._

_Gloss immediately clears his throat and blurts, "Winston."_

_The silence that blisters through the line makes his momentary relief disappear, like so many scattered words left unsaid._

"…_Gloss? Is that you?" Elara wonders. This time, she sounds incredulous, and he is immediately left reeling at the tone, feeling extremely out of his depth. Has he crossed a line? He frowns._

_After a pause, he firmly reminds her, "You gave me your number, remember?"_

_He can still recall the smirking way her eyes had captured his when she had slid the piece of paper into his pocket then proceeded to grasp the lapels of his blazer and drag him into a kiss. The blazer hadn't stayed on him for very long after that._

_Elara draws a blank. She hesitantly says, "That was a long time ago. I thought you lost it."_

_He pauses, too, feeling suddenly very awkward. Maybe he should have just thrown it away after all._

"…_I didn't," is all he says in response, and then purses his lips to keep himself from saying something else that is equally as stupid._

_Elara's voice is very amused when she drawls, "So I see."_

_He keeps his mouth clamped shut. She chuckles._

"_Are you in the Capitol?" she asks, leaning against the kitchen counter as she holds the phone to her ear. The question is easy and he latches onto it in hope that it might keep the awkwardness at bay. Honestly, he feels very unprepared in the face of said awkwardness. He can't recall it ever being present between them before. A casual relationship like theirs shouldn't be trapped within such heavy lines, or so he thinks._

_He sweeps a hand through his hair and replies, "Yeah. I'm heading back to District 1 in a few days." Then, because he figures he should probably have a reason behind this sudden urge to hear her voice, he asks her, "When's your next visit?"_

_She chews on her bottom lip and shrugs, "Mid-January. You?"_

_She hears him exhale loudly as he responds, "February. I guess we'll miss each other."_

_And, even though his words make it clear that he's referring to their schedules not lining up, he thinks that he'll miss her in other ways, too. He glances over at the door of his bedroom and imagines her leaning against the threshold of it, dressed in one of his shirts because apparently his clothing is more comfortable than hers. He knows it isn't, but she looks so good in his things that he's never told her otherwise._

_If he's being honest with himself, he already misses her. There's just something so compelling about having her around him. Her presence is a magnetic pull that suckers him in. Whenever she's near, he's able to forget that his life isn't as rosy as it's made to seem on national television._

_Elara hums over the line. It hasn't been very long since they started their strange relationship, but they've already gotten used to each other in a way she hadn't anticipated at the start of it all. Of course, she hadn't expected him to call her out of the blue like this, either._

"_I guess so," she mirrors, and they both fall silent. It feels very awkward, so she hurries to ask, "What's the weather like? It must be cold." Then she cringes, because she can't believe she had just brought up the weather, of all things. Gloss, apparently, can't believe it either._

_His voice is a perfect mixture of incredulous sarcasm when he snorts, "Really? You're asking about the weather?"_

_Elara shoves a fist against her mouth and groans, "Sorry. This is kind of weird, talking to you over the phone."_

_He hums dryly in agreement. "Well you just made it weirder when you asked if it's cold. It is, by the way. I'm freezing my ass off. I hate coming here in the winter."_

_She snickers. Gloss's hatred of the cold is not shocking at all. Winters in District 1 are hot and dry. He hadn't even seen snow until he became a Victor and had to make frequent visits to the Capitol._

"_Poor thing," she says unapologetically. "You must be beside yourself, wondering what all that white stuff is floating down from the sky."_

_Gloss purses his lips at her teasing, pressing his smile away even as it threatens to capture him completely. "Are you harassing me, Winston?" he demands, though his tone is light and amused. Her laughter is ridiculously addictive._

_Elara hums out a sigh. "We had a blizzard come through day before yesterday. Amelia nearly bit my head off when I made her help me shovel the walkway. I swear she gets worse with every year."_

_Though the Capitol gets snow each winter, it isn't nearly as bad as what District 5 gets. During bad winters, they'll have mountains of snow to plough through. The district isn't as destitute as some of the outer ones, so they are able to send trucks out to deal with the streets, but it's still a hassle._

_Gloss can't even imagine it. He furrows his brow and says, "That sounds like hell."_

_Elara laughs again, and once more he tries to memorize the sound of it. She tells him, "It's not that bad. I doubt you'd last a day in a snowstorm though."_

_He immediately returns with a scoffing, "You _are_ harassing me."_

_They fall silent again until he chuckles. She soon joins in._

_After a moment, Elara wonders, "Why did you call, Gloss?" The question has been nagging at her for ages now, worsening with every teasing word that they've exchanged. She can't imagine what reason he would have._

_He hesitates. She waits with baited breath, until he slowly says, "I don't know. I guess I just wanted to hear your voice."_

_Elara Winston is not a romantic, but this admission does something very strange to her heart. She swallows, looks down at the tiled floors of her kitchen, and smiles._

_He must misinterpret her silence, because after a beat of it he quickly adds, "I won't call you again. If you don't want me to." Then, aggravated at the awkward cadence of his words, his head drops back and he clamps his mouth shut again. He can't remember ever feeling so awkward in his life, and he's been in a lot of strange situations that should have been ten times as awkward as this one._

_Elara stands up straighter and immediately blurts, "No!" She pauses, clears her throat in embarrassment, and says more calmly, "I mean, you can call me. Whenever you want."_

_She feels herself blush and is glad that Gloss isn't around to see it. He's equallyas glad that she isn't around to see the grin that splits over his face._

"…_Yeah?" he asks with a laugh. He isn't sure what he's laughing at now. Maybe it's the fact that even in the face of all this awkwardness, it's still so easy to be around her._

_She chuckles too and responds, "Why not? I did give you my number, after all."_

_And, though she can't see it, Gloss can't seem to stop smiling. It will be a long time before he realizes why sh__e brings out such a reaction in him, and when he does, it will shock him with a fear that he will feel rather unaccustomed to dealing with…but for now, he revels in it._

* * *

Elara barely sleeps that night. By the time her and Gloss part ways, it's well after midnight. He tells her to try to get some sleep, but she's far too anxious about the Games to manage more than a light doze before nightmares plague her. She wishes she had him beside her to keep the dreams at bay, but all the Victors will be rising early the next morning to prep for the arena, and they can't risk being discovered. So she just lays there, trying to sleep but resigned to getting no rest, until the morning dawn slowly breaks out over the horizon and she finally has reason to get up.

The Games start at noon. Ignatius will want to start preparing her for the arena as soon as he can, but Elara knows that she's got a few hours before he even wakes up. It's barely six o'clock and he is no doubt sleeping peacefully in his room, and will be for a while yet.

With a sigh, she steps up to her dresser and pulls on a sweatshirt and jeans. After tidying herself up a bit, she heads into the suite and hunts down a cup of coffee. Then, after linger silently in the kitchen for a few minutes, she decides that she needs a change of pace and heads up to the roof. She's expecting to be alone, of course, but fate seems to have other plans.

Peeta is leaning against the railing as she steps onto the cement. Upon first glance, his posture seems relaxed and casual, but it doesn't take long for Elara to notice the tense shoulders and twisting hands. It isn't strange to be anxious on a day like today, but it does surprise Elara a little because Peeta has always been so calm and collected.

When he hears her approach, he tenses even more and spins around, eyes blazing intently until he sees who it is. And then, though his eyes still blaze, he relaxes just a bit and turns back to face the waking city in sullen silence, hardly acknowledging Elara's presence at all.

She acknowledges him, though not immediately. For a few lagging minutes, they just stand at the railing, side by side, quietly studying the bustling city below. It is a creature that never seems to sleep, even when the soft morning light pours out over the slate grey lines and every dip and cranny of its skeleton.

Then, after what feels like an age all to itself, Elara says, "I used to hate this place. Every part of it disgusted me."

Peeta doesn't react immediately, though he seems a little surprised at her sudden words and the seemingly random way they are construed. He peers at her out of the corner of his eye and frowns, "But you don't now?"

She doesn't look at him, instead keeping her eyes trained the far horizon, where the sun's warm fire is breaking the sky into a thousand blushing shades of pink. She traces the rim of her coffee mug and shrugs, "Oh, I still hate it, but…I've made a lot of memories here, and not all of them are terrible."

Mornings like this one, long past, with the glowing sky and a cup of coffee in her hands and Gloss in bed beside her, still fast asleep with the sheets shucked down low. Visits to Bella Donna's, the Italian take out restaurant just down the street from her apartment. Her and Gloss had gone there so many times over the years that they ended up becoming friends with the owners, and they'd find free additions to their meals every once in a while, which they'd fight over just for the hell of it. Secret kisses behind closed doors, where none but them could ever know the full extent of their desperate feelings. Pain and heartbreak to say goodbye – and joy like nothing she's ever felt to say hello again when that separation had come to its end.

There are many memories here, in these streets, and though most of them are ones that haunt Elara's dreams and make her recoil with disgust…many of them are hallow too, like the sweet sunrise that presses its whimsical rays towards the earth.

Peeta rests his chin on his palm and wonders, "You're in love with him, aren't you?"

He asks it with a voice that makes it seem like he's asking after the weather, or what kind of coffee she's drinking or what she'd like for breakfast. His tone is easy, like a soft breeze; so far removed from being judgmental that it hardly even feels like a question at all.

Elara turns her head to look at him, only to find that Peeta is already looking back at her. A part of her half expects to see some hint of shrewdness in his eyes, but it is not there. He looks only curious, and nothing more.

She hums. "Do you find that strange? Loving a man like him?"

She dares not utter Gloss's name. She doesn't know why. The wind that shudders over the edge of the building erases their words before any potential taps can pick them up. Maybe it's just a habit borne from years of secrecy and silence.

For the first time since she arrived, the corner of Peeta's mouth lifts in a small smile. He shakes his head and murmurs, "Love itself is strange, don't you think?"

At this, Elara chuckles, smiling back at him. "It is," she agrees, and turns back to the city. They fall silent again, until she slowly muses, "You know, last year during the 74th Games, I thought for sure that Katniss and you were just putting on an act." She sees him looking at her, but she just watches the horizon again and softly tells him, "But Gloss…he was convinced that it was real between the two of you. He said that the look in her eyes was the same look he had when he was figuring out how he felt towards me."

Peeta doesn't show it overmuch, but he's frankly shocked to hear this. Gloss Augustine is hardly a trustworthy character, at least in his current opinion. The man is a Career and a trained killer. He'd been ruthless during his Games, and his sister is no better. The pair of them would surely skewer him without a second thought if they crossed paths in the arena. The way Elara speaks of him though…it goes against all of his preconceived thoughts of what sort of man he is. It goes against everything.

Elara notices, of course. She used to people seeing her lover in a certain light. She did too, once, before she had realized how gentle he can be and how soft he is when he makes love to her. Gloss is a conundrum; a blend of opposites that shouldn't make any sense, but somehow does. He's physically imposing and gruff and even cruel, sometimes, but Elara knows the other side of his character. The side that he doesn't always show.

She sends Peeta an amused smile and says, "We're all the same, us Victors. It doesn't matter what district we're from or how we spent our early years. At the end of the day, we are a breed all our own, and no one else understands what it's like to be in our shoes." She pauses, then adds, "Gloss and Cashmere are no different. They don't want to go into the arena any more than you do. They aren't bad people…they just grew up with a different notion of what's important in life."

She shrugs, and Peeta hums. He's not sure what to think of Elara's speech. His mind is too swept up in other worries.

"Good luck in there, Peeta," Elara tells him after a while. He glances over at her and nods haltingly. She smiles.

"…You too, Elara," he returns as she starts walking back to the door.

He watches her until she disappears, and then turns back to the city with a musing expression. He's heard plenty of things about Elara Winston, too, over the years. That she's sarcastic and biting, that she spends a lot of time in the Capitol. That she can be cruel with her words.

None of those things seem to fit the cast of the woman he sees her as now, though. Perhaps she is right about one thing: that the Victors are all the same, at the end of the day. That they all a breed of their own. He sighs and blinks down at the streets, which are busy even now, and hopes that Elara is right. If she is, perhaps they all have a chance in the arena. If she isn't…well, this Hunger Games will turn out to be just the same as any other.

* * *

Gloss manages to find her before Ignatius wakes up. Elara returns to the kitchen and is pouring herself another mug of coffee when a hesitant knock sounds at the door. When she opens it a moment later and sees Gloss on the other side, she quickly glances behind her to see if anyone had wandered into the main room. They are still alone though, for now, and so she pulls Gloss inside with an adamant movement that makes him chuckle. The sound of it fades when Elara grabs his collar and forcefully drags him down to kiss her.

He does, without a second thought or a shred of hesitation, as if he's been waiting for her to do this for hours even though they haven't been parted from each other for very long. His arms loop around her, heaving her solidly against him. The strength of his grasp nearly crushes her, but Elara dares not complain. She only tries to get closer, pitching herself into his arms with a wilderness that has marked many of their previous couplings. Except – all of those times, they hadn't been going to their deaths, questioning if they would ever see each other again, and trying to say goodbye just in case but not wanting to do it in such a final way.

Instead of verbal goodbyes, they settle for this. Truly, they have become masters at the unspoken word; at brandishing their goodbyes in such a way. They have parted so many times that it is all water under the bridge now.

He sinks into her kiss with a shudder, fisting the back of her shirt with tight hands, moving his lips deeply with hers. She touches as much of him as she can, fluttering her fingers through his hair and over his stubbled jaw and against his broad shoulders. She tries to press this moment into her mind, to memorize the feeling of his mouth against hers and the warmth of his hands and the insistence of his kiss. She can feel his emotions brimming over that kiss, pouring into her in ways that he so rarely allows. She tries to memorize that, too, and the way she can read those emotions as clear as day in the cadences of his lips.

After several minutes that feels more like seconds, he pulls back, but he doesn't pull away. Instead he lingers there like one atom spiraling around another, lifting his hands to cup her face as he stares down at her with piercing eyes. He doesn't say a single thing, but the expressive way those eyes flicker into hers says everything Elara needs to know.

"…Go," she breathes to him, already hearing movement in one of the other rooms. The stylists will be up and about any moment now, ready to get the day started. Gloss can't be seen here when they do show up.

He knows that, but he's never been very good at letting her go.

He brushes his thumbs over her cheeks. Words rise up within him, wanting to be released, but they are all an incoherent jumble. There is nothing, really, to say in this moment. They have already said so many goodbyes that this one is just one more, and he has already used up all the words that might explain how desperately he wishes he could stay by her side. Those words have formed mountains between them, and he fears that no amount of them will bridge the gap that he already feels, drawing them apart once more.

He sighs out, presses his mouth to hers one last time, and pulls away. He does not say anything at all. He just gives her a brief, strained smile and steps back, and back, and back, until his hand blindly grasps the doorknob and he's turning it around. It takes him several more seconds to work up the courage to leave. He lingers there, staring at her, trying to memorize the planes of her face and the curve of her features, as if he thinks that he will never see her again.

For a split second, the phrase that he has so often tried to speak comes unbidden to his lips, but he does not get the chance to tell her that he loves her before the sound of footsteps approach. Once again, those words are left hanging between them like bullets gone awry, and the target gets smaller and smaller with every passing breath until –

He turns to leave, and shuts the door behind him, and swallows tightly around the lump in his throat.

He does not know it, then, but someday he will get to say those words to her. When that moment comes, he will desperately wish that he had the courage to say them before. For the moment in which he is utterly honest about his feelings towards Elara Winston will also be the moment in which all his hope is in shambles on the ground, dropping away from him like a ship sinking to the bottommost corner of the darkest ocean.

* * *

The dread that Elara has felt for the last two weeks seems to compress around her as she steps into the tube that will take her up into the arena. Ignatius has dressed her in a strange spandex suit. She can only guess at what landscape she is about to delve into. Nothing is certain in the Games, and even the barest hint of the temperature that her attire gives is shaky at best. The Gamemakers love to throw the tributes off by making them think one thing while doing everything in their power to take them off guard. It isn't surprising. The Hunger Games is the biggest, most bloodthirst reality show to ever grace a screen, and every bit of drama is stoked and allowed room to fester.

Despite her effort to remain impassive though, when she rises up into the arena, she is taken by surprise. Once her eyes adjust to the glaring bright sunlight and she sees the expanse of water around her, she feels her heart begin to thrum wildly in her chest. The funny thing about the fear that wedges itself into her heart is that she isn't afraid for herself. She knows how to swim. There's a huge lake around District 5 that is the root of many childhood memories. If they were allowed, she could probably swim to the far shore of it without breaking a sweat.

She isn't afraid for herself. She's afraid for Gloss.

With wild abandon, she searches for him, eyes spinning over the other Victors that stand on the pedestals around hers. It seems that there is no rhyme or reason to the position of each Victor. Usually, tributes from the same district are next to each other, but this time everything is all mixed up and confusing.

She sees Chaff on her right and Wiress on her left. Further down the line is Peeta and Seeder. She thinks she sees Cashmere's shocking pile of blonde hair but can't be sure, and there's no sign of Gloss's hulking frame at all. Clenching her jaw, Elara looks to Wiress instead, and sends her a firm nod. Wiress doesn't physically respond to her, but Elara knows she sees it by the way she rolls her shoulders back and hunches down into a determined crouch.

Elara follows suit, listening to the Gamemaker's voice countdown the seconds. Her heart beats to match, thrumming like a steel drum in her chest. Time slips through her fingers, and the flimsy plan she's formed in her head seems weaker than ever as her doubts frantically spin through her. She already knows before the countdown is up that the comradery of the last few days has come to a bitter end. There will be no mercy here, and she will not look for any.

The moment the countdown finishes, she propels herself into the water with a burst of energy bred entirely from the harrying pump of adrenaline that presses through her veins. The brine of salt water immediately surrounds her. She can taste it on her tongue as she swims for the nearest jut of rock that spans outward around the cornucopia. It is very different than swimming in the lake around her home.

This is no calm freshwater pond with tickling reeds and minnows that shoot about the water like wisps of sunken clouds. No - it is a hectic press against the waves that lap at her, threatening to displace her forward movements. She grows tired the more she pushes herself through the water. Her swimming skills are a bit unpracticed, and certainly unequipped for this salty environment. By the time she reaches the rocky jettison, she's gasping. Luckily, most of the other Victors are still swimming, which allows her some time.

Pulling herself up, she casts a short glance over her shoulder at Wiress, who is still floundering through the water. She wants to wait for her and help her to safety, but she's already pressed for time as it is and needs a weapon first. So, pursing her lips against the quick beat of betrayal that she feels against herself, she leaves the District 3 Victor behind – for now. She tells herself that she'll come back for her once she has a weapon, but she doesn't remember just how frenzied the Bloodbath is when you're right in the middle of it.

It's been eight years since her Games, and even though she's mentored many tributes since then, she's quite forgotten how frightening it is to be thrust in the middle of such chaos. When she reaches the cornucopia, she soon discovers that she is not the first one to reach the center of the small island.

"Winston! Catch!" Finnick calls, and tosses her a couple of knives the moment he sees her. She barely catches one before another is being thrown, but she only feels a shard of annoyance at his reckless throwing. She's mainly just happy that he isn't throwing them at her with the intent to kill.

"Where's Katniss?" Elara asks, chest heaving from the strain of her swim as well as the curdling anticipation of the oncoming slaughter. She isn't naïve enough to think that just because most of the Victors are friends, they won't kill each other when they have the chance. Only a small number of them know about the rebellion, after all.

Finnick hefts a large, gleaming silver trident out of a pile of weapons and strides out of the cornucopia. He's got a belt of knives slung over his shoulder. He pauses beside Elara and quickly says, "Don't know yet. You and I are the first ones here – "

His words cut off abruptly as he catches sight of Mags, whose age has made her journey to the jettison more difficult. The moment he sees her, Finnick starts forward, waving his hand to catch her attention as she hangs onto the rocks.

"Go to the beach! We'll meet you there!" he shouts to her, and she gives him a short nod before releasing her hold on the rocks and starting to swim for the shore that surrounds the cornucopia a short distance away.

Elara is securing the knives to her waist as he's stalking back to her, tying a leather belt about her that she found in the cornucopia. She glances up every other moment to see if any of the other Victors have reached the rocks yet. Some of them have and are pulling themselves out of the water even now. The sight of it has her fumbling with the loop on the belt, trying to be as quick as she can. Once it's secured, she draws a knife and clenches down around it, hoping that she won't be as useless with it as she'd been during training.

She doesn't have time to look for another weapon though, before Katniss is suddenly lurching into their midst, grabbing a bow and a quiver, and stringing her weapon with fierce dark eyes. She's pulling the bow back and aiming it at Finnick before Elara is prepared for her arrival. Thankfully, Finnick seems to have expected such a response from her. In fact, Elara would wager that he's been waiting for it.

"Hey, hey, didn't anyone ever tell you not to stick arrows into your friends?" Finnick asks with a smirk, but Elara notices the way his fingers flex around the handle of his trident, as if he's seconds away from throwing it at Katniss.

The Girl on Fire notices too.

"You're not my friend," she immediately barks, and pulls the bow further back with fingers that are starched white.

Finnick merely flashes his wrist at her and drawls, "But I _am_ your ally."

Elara frowns in confusion before remembering Haymitch's words from before. The gold bangle that flashes on Finnick's arm is a symbol of the alliance. She doesn't have one, but then again, Finnick seems to have taken her under his wing for now, for he grabs her arm a moment later and pulls Elara to his side. Katniss's gaze flickers between them for a short moment before a movement to their right draws her attention elsewhere.

"Peeta?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at the thrashing figures in the water. There is a telltale sign of blonde hair that flashes out of the water, and it immediately has Katniss pushing her bow down and shouting, "PEETA!"

She starts for the edge of the rocks, no doubt intent on swimming to her district partner to save him from the other Victor who is wrestling him into the water, but Finnick reaches out to stop her.

"I'll go. I'm a better swimmer. You and Elara head to the shore," he quickly says. He doesn't give Katniss any time to argue before he's diving into the ocean, trident and all. He's cutting through the water so quickly that Katniss can only gape at him, looking both anxious and furious at the same time.

"…Come on, we shouldn't linger here," Elara says after a moment, glancing around and shifting on her feet. The bloodbath is now beginning as the Victors begin to arrive, and if they stay any longer then they will be caught up in it.

Katniss clenches her jaw and swears. "Fine. Let's go," she barks, pushing herself into the water and making for the shore without waiting for Elara.

Elara is quick to follow, but – she can't help but glance around one last time, searching for Gloss amongst the other Victors who are starting to search for weapons that will soon be bloodied with their friends' life force.

And then…

She finds him. He's already looking at her, though his attention is only partially on her as he runs into the cornucopia and searches for a weapon to defend himself with. But their eyes clash briefly, and the intense yearning in her chest nearly keels her over before she forces herself to dive into the water and not look back.

She prays to whatever god exists that he makes it out of the bloodbath alive, and that when she does see him again, the dreams they've skirted around for years will actually have a chance to turn into something concrete.

She doesn't have a lot of hope for it in this moment though. Her faith is shaken as she hears canons begin to go off behind her, and feels tears well up in her eyes as she wonders if one of them belongs to him.

The salt water washes those tears away, but the intensity of her terror is not so easily soothed.


	37. This love is like a tangled untrod path,

**Chapter Thirty Seven | This love is like a tangled untrod path,**

"_Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast."_

_2.3, 94 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_When Gloss kisses her, it almost feels as though Elara is being welcomed into another world. Sometimes that world is swept over with passion; other times, it's soft and caressing and it makes her feel like she's floating on some cloud somewhere, high above the terrors of this city. His arms are warm and they make her feel protected, even though she knows she isn't. But even so, when he presses her against the back of the couch and hikes her up onto it, the safety of his body makes her head spin._

_She draws him against her, hooking her legs around his hips and tipping his head back to kiss him harder. He sighs against her mouth, hands sliding up her sides and pressing beneath the black silk shirt she's wearing. He thinks that her skin is even softer than the silk as he thumbs over it._

"_Mmm…you're so warm," he tells her, burying his face against her neck and staying there for a moment, doing nothing but holding her. His hands slide around her back, flat against her skin as he keeps her right where she is._

_Elara hums into his hair and kisses his ear, lips dancing over his cheekbone and up his temple. She slips her fingers over his scalp and smiles when he sighs out. Whenever she scratches her way through his hair, his reactions are spectacular._

_Dusk is falling hard out in the streets of the Capitol, but neither of them notice the darkening hue of the sky or the way it makes the already slate grey city even more colorless. She has only just arrived an hour ago, straight from District 5. The small bag she always brings with her had been tossed rather haphazardly by the door. It has all the necessities that she doesn't keep in her apartment, but she'll go through it later. For now, she's far too preoccupied with sliding Gloss's shirt off his shoulders and leaning down to kiss every inch of revealed skin._

_He leans back and lets her, planting his hands on the back of the couch that she's now perched on and watching as she places lingering kisses over his shoulders and neck. His eyes flutter a bit at the gentle way her mouth caresses him, especially when her hands slide over his lower abdomen and holds him closer by the belt loops of his trousers._

_It's been far too long since she's explored his body. He intends on enjoying every second of it. But, when he lifts his hands to her face, wanting to pull her back into a kiss, Elara pulls away. When he sees where her attention has been drawn to, Gloss freezes._

_He immediately pulls his hands back, but she stubbornly catches them before he can withdraw completely. She stares at his wrists for a long moment, face flickering with too many expressions to put into words until it finally settles into a solemn frown. He sighs and watches as she traces her fingertips very lightly over the bruises that surround both his wrists._

"…_Client?" is all she asks, keeping her eyes trained to the ugly bruises. They're more faded now. He'd had a week of discomfort, and he's happy that she hadn't been there when it had occurred. Elara worries over him more than she should. Between the two of them, he thinks she should worry more about herself. She has it worse than he does, at least when it comes to hotel rooms and prostitution._

_He twists his hands until he's holding her instead of the other way around, and sighs, "It doesn't hurt, Elara. Stop worrying so much."_

_What had hurt more was his pride, when he'd bit down his complaints and allowed his client to tie his wrists to the headboard. She only frowns more deeply, and he sighs again._

"…_Do you want to stay tonight?" she asks quietly. They have a strange, unspoken agreement when it comes to the nights they spend together. They used these unspoken rules more in the beginning of their affair, before they had gotten to know each other as much as they do now. Intimacy isn't always welcome – they know it more than most – and sometimes, one of them isn't in the mood for it. What Elara is really asking is if he is._

_Gloss chuckles and reaches out to grasp the back of the couch again, leaning into her as he says, "Yes."_

_The answer is so astoundingly simple and yet so complicated too, because the question itself has never been straightforward. There are layers of it that brim to the surface at different times, in different atmospheres, as if the question is pressurized in a vacuum of space. Sometimes, when she asks it, she thinks she's asking him if he wants to be with her forever. Sometimes, when he answers her, he thinks he's saying that he does._

_Elara sighs out and wraps her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his shoulder and holding him tightly. Against his skin, she whispers, "When did it happen?"_

_She doesn't ask why, or where, or how. When you're a Victor, there's only one way to get a bruise like that. She can't say that it's never happened to her before, because that would be a lie. Sometimes, clients hurt you. Sometimes they do in on purpose and sometimes they don't, but it isn't as rare as it should be._

_Gloss reaches up to touch her hair, stroking his hand over the soft tresses of it and leaning his head against hers. After a moment, he murmurs, "Last week." He twists a strand of hair between his fingers as his other hand traces her spine through the silk fabric of her shirt._

_She tightens her hold of him and breathes, "I'm sorry I wasn't here."_

_He raises his eyes to the window behind the couch. The sky is a tangled mess of greys and navy blues, broken only by the erratic spin of the city's neon lights._

"_I'm glad you weren't," he tells her after a moment. "I was…pretty angry afterwards."_

_They all have different ways of dealing with the horrors that they are forced to deal with. Finnick laughs it off. Johanna makes fun of her like with sarcasm. Elara absorbs it all and tries to temper it with the moments she spends with Gloss. And Gloss…well, when his schedule is lined with clients instead of photoshoots, he gets angry._

_When Gloss gets angry, he gets very angry. She's witnessed it enough times by now to know why he's glad she wasn't there to see it, but she still wishes she was._

_Pulling away, she studies his face and asks, "How long do we have this time?"_

_He's already been in the city for a number of days now. Surely, he'll be leaving before her. Even though she's only just arrived, she already feels the press of loneliness shutter against her at the thought of saying goodbye to him yet again._

_Gloss leans in to kiss her. It's a light kiss, barely a graze, and against her lips he mutters, "Let's not think about that right now."_

_He truly doesn't want to think about how many days belong to them, when in truth, time cannot be broken up and owned in such a way. Not their time, anyway. But his answer is telling. They don't have very long together during this visit. Time is the very thing that slips through their fingers, like the smog that rises up from the factories of the Capitol and taints the already grey sky with its vagrant fumes. Elara swallows back the words she'd like to say and just kisses him. He sinks into her kiss easily. It is so simple, being with her. Sometimes it still amazes him._

_She sighs breathily and grasps the hem of her shirt, sliding it off her body and throwing it to the floor before dragging him back into her. Gloss captures her face in one hand and tilts her chin up, sliding his mouth over hers as he reaches around her to unclasp her bra. It joins her shirt quickly, and before long Elara is arching into him as his hands cups her breasts and spin pleasure into her skin._

_She wants him so badly that she doesn't hesitate to bring her hands down to his trousers. She can't help but rub against the growing bulge of them before undoing the button, much to Gloss's pleasure. He makes a noise against her mouth and drags her bottom lip between his teeth in retribution, though his revenge only makes her head spin even faster. When she presses her fingers into his pants and against the hardened flesh of his arousal, it's well worth it._

_He groans and squeezes her breast, chuckling a bit against her lips as he drawls, "I think I might've missed you, Winston."_

_His wording has her laughing. She kisses him briefly and catches his eye, her gaze narrowed in amused agreement. As she strokes him against her hand, tightening her fingers around the length of him, she breathlessly says, "I think I might've missed you, too."_

_He groans again and shakes his head as if he can't quite believe how much he wants her. But it's true – he wants her so much he can't even breathe. His desire for her is so encompassing that he doesn't even hesitate when he reaches for her and heaves her up, immediately turning to carry her to the bedroom. Elara laughs all the way, tilting his head back to press short kisses to his lips even as he lowers her to the floor._

_They don't say anything else as they shuck off the rest of their clothes and climb onto the mattress. Beyond the window, the city breathes, and in this room, they breathe too._

* * *

Sometimes, she has doubts. Sometimes they plague her mind restlessly like a dizzying spiral that drags her down so deeply she spends days there, trapped like a silhouette beneath the glassy surface of an icy lake. Sometimes, they are just trickles of fear that take smaller forms but have a tremendous impact, for as they fester, they grow. And it doesn't matter how many times she bangs her fist against the icy cage of her own fears, or how many slivers break through the surface of it as a result – it never shatters entirely. There are chinks in the armored exterior, but it never melts.

"Careful," Finnick's voice murmurs up ahead. He reaches out to lay a steady hand on Mags's arm as she stumbles over a tangled root. The old woman pats Finnick's hand with a gentle smile and allows him to hook their arms together like a chain. There is something so innocent about the gesture. So wholesome in this place of death.

Behind them, canons roar. The sound is duller now, not as bright as it had been while they were making their way to the beach. Distance and the thick jungle undergrowth have softened the noise to echoing blasts that are less riotous, but just as consuming. It is not the sound itself that makes their shoulders tense and their postures wary; it is the meaning behind them.

Already, things have started to go awry. The carefully laid plans that Elara has only recently been made privy to are skewed from their natural course. Johanna had not joined up with them. They hadn't had the chance to look for her, so no one knows if she's alive or if she's one of those canon blasts that pucker the silence like needles dropping into skin. Beetee and Wiress, too, are not with them, and the plan hinges around Beetee's wire just as solidly as it does around Katniss's acceptance of her unexpected allies.

The girl is wary around them. She doesn't trust them at all. It's clear enough in the way she takes to the rear, clasping her bow as if she is ready to draw an arrow on them. The few times Elara had glanced back at her, Katniss had skewered her with a darkly stoic look that spoke of suspicion and skepticism. Their brief but honest conversation in the training center seems to have disappeared from her mind, washed away with every minute spent in this arena.

After a while, Elara had stopped looking. She keeps her gaze trained on the path and the way ahead. Peeta is hacking away with a machete to clear the trail for them. Unlike Katniss, he doesn't appear to have even an inkling of mistrust at all, but perhaps that's only because he knows his district partner is behind him, ready to protect him if necessary.

It's all a mess, and every canon that shudders through the silence makes Elara cringe. Gloss is back there, somewhere. Perhaps he is cutting his way through the other Victors with the Career pack at his side, brutally transforming back into the merciless man who had paved his way to victory during his Games. Maybe he is dripping with blood, digging his blade into any tribute he sees, falling all over again into the murderous role that has plagued his nightmares every night, following him into sleep and showing him what he had done and who he had killed.

Maybe he is dead, body laid out on the cold rocks, blood seeping into the lapping water, eyes staring sightlessly towards the shore.

Elara shivers and ducks her head, trudging forward as a pinched expression captures her features. Gloss wouldn't die in the Bloodbath. He's much too skilled a fighter and far too determined to survive.

Still, the thoughts plague her, growing bolder and more harrowing the further they walk. Images of her friends spiral through her mind. Johanna, dead. Cashmere, dead. Wiress – oh, how she regrets not going back for her!

They walk for hours, it seems, though it is difficult to tell how much time actually passes. Time seems to blend together here with the thick humid air pressing down around them on all sides and the tangled undergrowth that suffocates them nearly as much. Still, it could have been an age and Elara wouldn't have noticed. Not until they reach the end, of course.

She's not paying attention. Her thoughts are too consuming and her mind too heavy, and she doesn't notice the forcefield that is fast approaching. But Katniss does. Suddenly, the girl shouts Peeta's name, her voice encased with a warning, but it is too late. Peeta walks right into the forcefield that marks the edge of the arena, and is thrown backwards into the dirt with a power that staggers him.

Within the span of a second, Katniss is throwing herself at him. Her bow clatters to the ground at her side, and they all stand there, shocked, as she begins to sob his name. Peeta is not breathing. He's dead.

Or – so everything assumes, until Finnick shoulders his way through, kneels down beside him, and plants his mouth right down onto Peeta's. Elara raises an eyebrow at the strange sight, but it all makes sense when Finnick pinches down on Peeta's nose. He's blowing air into his lungs. Performing CPR. Katniss does not understand though.

"Get off of him!" she snarls, trying to shove Finnick away.

Finnick shoots her a scathing look and starts pumping Peeta's chest, retorting, "I'm trying to save him!"

The short explanation doesn't seem adequate at first, until Katniss realizes that he truly is trying to restart Peeta's heart. And, thankfully, it works only a few minutes later.

Peeta suddenly gasps, lurching forward with a jolt that is soon accompanied by a pained groan. He sinks back into the earth with that pain blazing through his eyes, but it turns into surprise when Katniss throws herself into his arms and cries, "You were dead, you were dead," over and over again.

Elara silently watches as Peeta hesitantly curls an arm around Katniss's shoulders. His voice is joking when he says, "There's a forcefield…up ahead…"

The attempt at a joke only makes Katniss cry harder. Elara chuckles though, mostly in relief. Peeta is far too good to die. Out of all of them, his hands are the cleanest.

Finnick stands up and returns to Mags's side. He shares a glance with Elara as he does. He looks subtly surprised, probably because of Katniss's reaction to Peeta's near death experience. Elara just gives him a shrug. Love is strange. She knows that by now.

"We should keep going," she says after a moment spent watching the star-crossed lovers bask in each other's arms. At Elara's reminder, they both sit up. Katniss rubs her eyes and grabs her bow, getting to her feet before turning to help Peeta stand. He's shaky, his every movement slow. Not a good sign.

As Katniss is wrapping a protective arm around her, Finnick carefully asks, "You seemed to know that there was a forcefield ahead before any of us did. How does that work, anyway?" He eyes her suspiciously.

The question makes both Katniss as well as Elara freeze. Elara shoots her a subtle glance that makes Katniss's eyes flicker with understanding. If the Gamemakers knew that the tributes could see the forcefield, they would change it so that they wouldn't be able to see it again. It's a simple enough thing to do – reroute the source of electricity to alter the outward sheen of it – and as a result, they would lose their advantage. There's also the fact that the Capitol probably wouldn't like the idea of anyone knowing what one of their forcefields looks like. It's the principle of it all. A constant need to be superior to the Victors and the rest of Panem.

Haltingly, Katniss mutters, "My ear. I…got caught in that explosion during my Games last year, remember? The doctors must've fixed it up a lot better than I thought because I can hear this buzzing sound…it must be coming from the forcefield."

Elara sighs out in relief and sends Katniss a slow nod. "Makes sense," she supplies, trying to sweep the conversation under the rug. Katniss looks vaguely grateful, but doesn't show it beyond a brief glance and the barest twist of her mouth.

Finnick furrows his brow, glances at Elara, and shrugs, "You should take the lead then. I'd rather not give CPR to anyone else. Well, except maybe you, Elara."

He sends her a suave wink and, for the first time today, she laughs. Amused, she drawls, "What a compliment." Finnick sends her a playful grin.

They devise a way of traveling around the forcefield, thinking at first that it is just a hiccup in their path. Their goal is to get as far away from the other Victors as possible, and they all assume that soon enough, they'll be able to keep moving forward. They throw these little tree nuts at it, and they bounce back when they hit the forcefield, telling them that their path is still dangerous. But – it never seems to end. They travel for what seems like ages, and the forcefield is still there.

After about an hour of this, Katniss grows impatient.

"I'm climbing a tree," she tells them. "I want to get a bird's eye view of this arena. It'll give me a chance to look for water, too."

They all agree, watching as Katniss effortlessly scales a large tree. She disappears from view after a while, shrouded by the thick jungle leaves, and when she reappears, she comes bearing interesting news.

"It's a circle!" she informs them, explaining how she'd sent one of her arrows into the sky and watched the electrical current of the arena bend around the enclosed space like a globe. The information is fascinating to Elara, who suddenly wishes that Beetee is there to strike up a conversation of this phenomena.

Katniss holds up what looks like a rat and adds, "I couldn't find water, but this guy seemed to know where to look." Briefly, she tells them about how he'd clearly been drinking something before she had shot him down, which makes the others hopeful. Their lack of water hasn't helped their slow pace or equally slow movements, and their thirst makes the jungle even more oppressing.

After a while, they decide to find someplace to camp for the night. The sky is beginning to darken into an ashen grey. A fabricated sunset looms above – at least, as far as they can see through the thick canopy of leaves above their heads. They are deep into the jungle. Deep into territory that they knew very little about.

Eventually, the group finds a place to bunker down for the night. Finnick and Mags start weaving some mats out of tall reeds that spring up from the ground in droves. Katniss, who had managed to catch another of her 'tree rats', as she's taken to calling them, makes a fire and starts skinning the animals for their meal. When Elara notices Peeta start gathering firewood, she jogs to follow him, partially because she wants to do something useful that will hopefully distract her from her own fears, and partially because she doesn't think Peeta should wander too far by himself in his current state.

He doesn't seem to mind her presence. When she appears at his side, he sends her a smile that is easily returned.

"How are you feeling?" she immediately inquires, stooping momentarily to grab a few sticks. Their fire tonight will need constant supervision – there are no logs to be found, which means they'll need to feed it twigs and leaves that will burn too quickly to bear much warmth.

Peeta shrugs. He glances back towards the camp, gaze lingering on Katniss's crouching figure, and murmurs, "I feel fine. I'm just tired."

She gives him a wry look. "Well you did technically die today, Mellark."

He chuckles. Then, in a calm voice, he wonders, "And how do _you_ feel?"

The question sounds calculated, almost. Elara glances over at him cautiously, a small frown marring her brow. Peeta gives her a knowing look. He clearly isn't blind; he must've noticed her dour mood all day and figured that it had something to do with Gloss.

"I…I have hope," she whispers to him, though she's not sure if it's a lie or not. The truth is, she had lots of hope before entering the arena, but now that she's here in the center of it all, she doesn't think she has the fortitude for such a buoyant feeling. Peeta must notice that, too. And yet…

Peeta doesn't know about the plan. He doesn't know about the rebellion, or about District 13, or that if everything goes the way it's supposed to, both Katniss and himself will survive the arena. He doesn't know any of that. Instead, he thinks that there will be only one survivor, as there always is, and even though he looks like he wants to say something comforting to Elara about her plight, he falters because he doesn't know what he could possibly say in such an instance.

Well – he does know. He knows it all too well. He glances back at Katniss and thinks it's a little funny, how there are two sets of star-crossed lovers in the arena this year.

"Why didn't you ally with him?" he asks, glancing back at Elara, who is crouching down to pile more brush and twigs into her arms. The question makes her pause, fingers idling on a stray twig before she continues her actions. He watches her all the while, honestly curious about the answer.

He's spent the past week watching Gloss and Elara out of the corner of his eye. It's hard not to notice them. They have this magnetic thing between them that's impossible to ignore, and even _he_ had felt it despite being an outside party. The brief, fluttering touches; the piercing glances full of both smoldering promises and lighthearted love alike; the protective way Gloss had lingered nearby every day of training, looking after her and trying to help her wield a weapon…

It would have been impossible not to notice the sheer magnetism of their connection, whatever said connection is, and Peeta is hardly blind. So why did Elara Winston ally herself with them, when she could have spent the last few days of her life with the man she's so clearly in love with?

Elara's response is stilted, which makes Peeta wonder if she's telling him the whole truth.

"I ran into Finnick before I could find him and…well, then the bloodbath started and I knew I had to get out of there so I just joined up with your group." The explanation is accompanied by a little grimace, as if she isn't sure if she regrets doing so or not. Peeta hums, crouching down too so that he can gather a few handfuls of twigs.

As he adds them to the bundle in his arms, he peers at her and murmurs, "Well, if it's any consolation, I'm sure he's okay. He's strong."

Elara looks subtly surprised at his attempt to comfort her. By all accounts, Peeta should want Gloss to be killed. Gloss is, after all, a Career who could potentially get in his way in the future. He doesn't know that there is a plan to get them all out of the arena alive. All he knows is that the Career pack are the traditional hunters in the Games, and that the possibility of running into them at some point in the near future is high.

Elara sends him a little smile and nods. "Thank you, Peeta," is all she says, deciding not to call him out on his words when they had been uttered so genuinely. She realizes, then, just how good Peeta truly is. To care about other lives as much as he does, despite the fact that some of those people are killers and hunters whose redemptions are questionable at best, at least to their own broken perspectives…

She smiles at him again and quietly asks, "Think we've got enough by now?" She lifts her arms to silently gesture to the kindling, and Peeta nods.

"Yeah, I think so," he responds. Together, they walk back into the camp.

Finnick and Mags have already woven one large mat and are working on their second in their usual companionable silence that is puckered with waving gestures and quiet communication. Nearby, Katniss has skinned all the tree rats and is working on skewering them all. The fire in front of her is paltry. Peeta is quick to kneel down to feed it some larger sticks in hope of enticing the flame.

Elara sits down too, dropping her bundle of kindling beside Peeta's and turning to stare at the soft flame. She doesn't know how long she stares at it, watching the wisps of it slowly grow into something more substantial. It isn't very long, though, before suddenly the sky above them lights up and the familiar anthem of Panem plays out loudly.

At once, the entire group stops what they're doing to crane their necks upward. Elara immediately stands up, as if she's hoping that the closer she gets to the sky, the better chances she has of her biggest fears being waylaid.

But tonight, her fears are not meant to come true. Tonight, she is safe from the despair that threatens to keel her over.

Harley though, appears beneath the words 'District 5'. She frowns as she realizes that the man she has spent so many years with and yet hardly knows is dead. She wonders if he had died in the bloodbath, and wishes yet again that she had spoken more to him before the Games began. She doubts it would have done much good, considering his alliance with Chaff and Seeder, but still…

Quite a few Victors flash above them, their faces marking their final symphonies. Their lives are now over, their stories finished. The legacies of their tales will not continue to sing, and the ones they've left behind will grieve sorely at their loss. But – Elara will not be one of them.

Gloss is not up there, and she breathes a sigh of relief that nearly overpowers her in its potency. She does not see Cashmere or Johanna either, nor Beetee or Wiress, and she slowly sinks back down to the ground with an exhausted look on her face. She's been half convinced that Gloss had met his end after all in the bloodbath early that day. But Peeta had been right to say that he is strong. She knows just how strong he is, and just how determined he is to return to her side.

She desperately hopes that it is soon.


	38. Whose gates lay open to Love's fleet,

**Chapter Thirty Eight | Whose gates lay open to Love's boundless fleet,**

"_Now, by the stock and honor of my kin,_

_To strike him dead I hold it not a sin."_

_1.5, 59-60 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_When Gloss was a boy, he'd follow his sister around like a lost puppy. Unlike other sisters, who might have a problem with their younger brother hanging off of them, she never minded. He was her shadow. Without him, there was no sun._

_Mr. and Mrs. Augustine owned a sizable home in the center of District 1, in a neighborhood that was neither good nor bad. Their street boasted several other families with children around Cashmere and Gloss's age, one clothing store, and a restaurant. They would go out to eat every once in a while, when Mr. Augustine was in the mood for the exceptional smoked ribs that the restaurant was known for. It was an expense that the family could afford, for they were neither rich nor poor._

_Mrs. Augustine would take her children out every now and then for weekly outings while their father was at work. Some days they would go to the park several blocks away. Other days they would visit one of the shops that lined the main shopping center of the district. Cashmere would often beg her mother to buy her things, and sometimes she would, because Mrs. Augustine had a personality that was neither stifling nor generous, but somewhere right in the middle of the two._

_As Gloss grew older, he started hanging around Cashmere less. He made friends with the other boys from school, and they would play in the city streets after classes until the sun would start to sink below the far horizon. They would play kick the can on the sidewalks, or run to the edge of the city and dare each other to walk into the desert, or mess around with the neighbor's dog who always barked at them whenever they walked past. They would get into all sorts of trouble together. Sometimes, if Gloss came home dirty and scratched up, his father would scold him for being irresponsible, and sometimes he would chuckle at him for his antics. His parents were neither strict nor lenient._

_When he was old enough to enter the Academy, his parents became slightly stricter. District 1 was a wonderful place to live, all things considered. There were plenty of things to do, and most of its citizens could afford to live a comfortable life. Jobs were always cropping up and new businesses often replaced old ones. However, with the ease of life came other burdens. Gloss was expected to excel at the Academy, because his parents were hopeful that he would someday bring honor to the district and their family._

_Honor. It is not a boring concept to a boy. Gloss liked the thought of bringing honor to his district even back then, before he knew what it entailed. He grew up watching the Hunger Games every year, and from the perspective of a District 1 boy, they were a way of doing just that. He pushed up the social ladder of the Academy until he was seen as the best wrestler, the quickest learner, and the swordsman with the most skill. He practiced with his sister sometimes in the backyard under the proud eyes of his father, who would sit on the patio with the weekly paper and study the progress that his children had made._

_Mr. Augustine was so happy when Cashmere was Reaped. They had a celebratory dinner that night, even though Cashmere hadn't been there to take part in it. Their father had chuckled during the reruns of the Reapings, amused at how Cashmere had shoved her way through the crowd as she volunteered to replace the girl who had initially been chosen. In her haste to be the first volunteer, she accidentally pushed one of the older girls to the ground, and the scuffle that had resulted in the situation only made Mr. Augustine that much prouder._

"_Look at her, all grown up," he'd said to his wife that night, chuckling at the television and sipping an after dinner cocktail. Mrs. Augustine had just smiled._

_Being Reaped for the Hunger Games was not a big deal in District 1, who boasted the most Victors in Panem. Gloss didn't like it, but it wasn't because he was worried for his sister. He was merely jealous of the glory that she would no doubt receive, even if she didn't make it out of the arena alive._

_Looking back on his old self, he can't believe how warped his perception had been. But back then, it was normal. Everything was normal until Cashmere won the Games and came home. And then, suddenly, everything wasn't._

_She was different. Gloss couldn't figure out how, or why, or when this transformation took place. All he knew was that the sister that he had followed around like a shadow back when they were kids was not the same person she had been only weeks before._

_She got angry at him whenever he asked her questions about the Games or the Capitol. If he got too close to her, she'd cringe back with a foul cuss that resulted in their father scolding her sharply. When he inquired into why she seemed to be getting so many invitations to visit the Capitol, she snapped at him and told him to keep his damned mouth shut._

_He didn't understand, back then. It wasn't until Cashmere returned home one day about eight months after her victory that he connected all the dots._

_She had bruises in places that didn't make any sense. Around her neck, circling her wrists and ankles, darting up her legs. He wouldn't have noticed them at all if he hadn't accidentally walked in on her while she was tending to them._

_Oh, she had been furious at him for days afterwards, yelling at him and pushing him around. He hadn't tried to stop her, hadn't yelled or pushed her back. Normally, he would have, but the sight of her bruised body haunted him so much that for once, he didn't feel like fighting. He wasn't innocent anymore. By then, he'd had his fair share of sexual encounters. He was an attractive teenager with a toned body even at that age, muscled from the years spent training at the Academy. He knew, instinctively, that there was only one way his sister could have gotten those bruises._

_The more weeks that followed the incident, the more resolute he became. He had spent his life following Cashmere around like a lost child, and he was going to keep following her – not because he was jealous of her fame, but because he had every intention of protecting her from getting any more of those bruises._

_In hindsight, it had been naïve of him to think that he could put a stop to it, but the more bruises Cashmere acquired, the more determined he became._

_When he Volunteered, Cashmere was so furious that she refused to say goodbye to him. He had been annoyed at her for it, until he realized why she was angry. The Hunger Games were not what he had thought they were. It wasn't the killing itself that haunted him, or the peculiar sound of death's cruel hand being dealt. It wasn't really the act of killing at all – it was the way he lost himself in it that altered his soul in such an irreparable way. It was also what came afterwards._

_When he became a Victor, he realized that he had been seeing the world through rose colored glasses. Everything he thought he knew about the Capitol was false, and when he was pushed into the underbelly of it, the idealism of his younger self did not survive the fall. Within months, he not only realized that he was powerless to protect his sister, but that he was also powerless to protect himself. Within weeks, his entire world shifted to accommodate his new life._

_He had been a witless fool back then, overconfident and too sure of himself. He couldn't stop the nightmare once it began to unfold; couldn't put an end to Cashmere's suffering or keep his own demons at bay. He couldn't stop his parents from being killed the first time he tried, and after that, he didn't try again. He stopped everything, swallowed his pride until it was no more than a dusty layer that made up some unused part of him. He shoved it out of sight and out of mind. Pride had no place in the life he was now living._

_He lived that way for years, and then…_

_Her. She fell into his world like a comet crashing to earth; a tempest of wry sarcasm and inspiring wit. Even in the beginning, he couldn't get enough of her. She made his nights beautiful and his days engaging. She overthrew the foundations of him, broke down that dusty layer of pride that had been ignored for so long. She drew from him the chords of some forgotten emotion that had been latent for what seemed like an eternity, and when it resurfaced, it steamrolled into him with all the force of a hurricane._

_He fell for her harder than he'd ever fell before, even when the Capitol pulled him into its darkness and tangled him up in its lies._

* * *

He can't count how many times he's had nightmares of driving his sword through the chest of another tribute. In his dreams, he is the very same Career that had stalked through his arena, cutting life away as easily as breathing. The guiltless streak of that power has haunted him for years now, whispering things to him. Things of darkness and sin. If it wasn't so tragic, he might find it ironic how easily he falls back into the role.

Like a true killer, his blood sings as he snatches up a knife from a fallen tribute and impales it into yet another. He can feel the blade sink into flesh and muscle. It takes a certain amount of strength to drive it up to the hilt, but he does it every time. Ruthless, calculated. He is all of these things and more.

He sees the barest glimpse of Elara's form at the edge of the rocks, but his mind is already a haze of battle, his blood pumping with adrenaline borne from senseless survival. Instinct has taken over, and in the process of turning himself over to it, he loses the rest of him.

He doesn't have time to see if Elara makes it out of the bloodbath. He is far too focused on staking out the front of the cornucopia and driving his blade into any tribute who ventures too close.

Friends, foes – it doesn't matter that he's known these people for years. It doesn't matter that he knows some of them have kids who are watching this gruesome scene play out. It doesn't matter that he hates himself for becoming the man that has haunted him since his victory. Nothing matters. Nothing but –

Cashmere. Elara. District 13.

It is a burgeoning determination that has him standing his ground and reverting back into the merciless killer of his past. It is the deathly need to stay alive for long enough to see if he could, perhaps, have the life he's always dreamt of, on the nights where he had held Elara in his arms and wondered if their brief unions were all they were allowed. On many other nights, too, back in District 1, when his loneliness had crushed him. When his despair had driven him into the darkest places he's ever been.

"On your left," Cashmere barks at him, sidling to his side and eyeing a Victor who is trying to sneak past him to reach one of the weapons stored inside the cornucopia. He turns his head to look at him. It takes a moment to see the face and recognize it. His blade is already sinking into Chaff's chest before he does though, and he just kicks his body off of his sword and watches him tumble to the ground, choking on his own blood.

In the back of his mind, he recalls memories of Chaff's laughter in the public viewing room. Poker games and bets on which of their tributes will survive. An endless need to make light of a situation that is constantly dark. Open affection and drinks with people he hardly knows.

The thoughts shrink into nothingness seconds after they arrive. He shoves them away. He's too focused on driving his blade into another chest.

He was wrong, he realizes, as he remembers those despairing nights full of anguish and suffering. The cold pangs of separation. The dark places he had gone to, in hopes of staving away that pain. He was wrong – those are not the darkest places he's ever been. This is.

Now he remembers, with every ounce of certainty he possesses, just how terrifying it is to kill and not feel remorse. To take life and not care. To put himself before others, selfishly and without a shred of hesitation. Now he remembers how easy it is to be the Career. To embrace the parts of himself that he has spent a decade loathing.

Now, he remembers.

Brutus and Enobaria arrive on the scene. He tosses Brutus a sword from a nearby pile of weapons. Enobaria grabs an axe. He watches some tributes decide against approaching. They are the smart ones who turn and flee, diving into the water and making for the shore. They will either be hunted down or die of some other cause in the jungle beyond. He doesn't particularly care either way. They are not his concern.

Though he's struggled with the idea of parting from Elara in the arena, of letting her out of his realm of protection, he feels strangely grateful that she is not here to witness his brutal display. He does not feel like the man she has grown to love. The man he is now is ruthless and cutthroat. The gentle, loving parts of himself that he has shown to her now fall away, replaced by cold steel and blood; sinfulness and murder. He is not Gloss. He is a Career.

Canons go off one after another for what seems like an age. The noise becomes commonplace and familiar. Memories of other canons, in the arena of his past, sweep through him. He never thought he'd live to be here again, after all this time. Never thought he'd be forced to reconcile with his past self in such a glaringly palpable manner. Yet here he is, that man again. The man who is willing to kill everyone in this entire place if it means that he will survive.

Survival – what a disparaging thing. He has tried to justify his actions with that word for years now. Tried to convince himself that it was an instinct that forced him to kill so mercilessly. An animal impulse and nothing more. Sometimes, he succeeded too. Sometimes he was able to reassure himself that his actions really were justified. That he couldn't have taken any other action anyway; there were too many things at stake.

What a lie! Instinct is a way to excuse his own shortcomings. It is the easy road out of the tangled, complicated net of his deficiencies. He isn't the same man who had stood in the bloodbath of his first Games. He is no longer that idealistic.

No, if anything, Gloss Augustine is far more pragmatic these days, and he does not excuse his actions as anything so delicate as human instinct. He knows what he's doing and why he's doing it, and if he has to embrace the darkness of his soul in order to protect the ones he loves, well…

He will fall into that darkness a thousand times over. Let is wash over him so completely that any hope of salvaging himself will be lost. Give it as much clearance as it needs, if it means that he can protect and defend the two women he loves more than his own redemption.

Brutus lets out a satisfied grunt as he finishes off the last tribute, plunging his blade across Seeder's throat. The woman falls, reaching up to clasp her split neck. Her eyes are wide and frightened. Her hands turn bloody within moments. As she falls to the rocks, her entire body is soaked in her own blood.

He recalls that she has three children and a husband back home. Maybe she has friends and a job that keeps her busy. Maybe she's been able to lie to herself since her victory – pretend that she has a life after all, and that she isn't as broken as she really is. That's the catch 22, after all. The lies that you feed yourself in the years that follow. The struggle of trying to prove to yourself that you aren't a shattered remnant of the person you were, in the times that came before.

He stares down at her as the life drains from her eyes, schooling his features into an expression of emotionless disregard.

"Well," Brutus says, leaning down with a grin as he wipes his sword on Seeder's clothing. There's blood smeared against his cheek and it makes his grin that much more horrific.

Enobaria barks out a laugh and cracks her knuckles, turning her gaze to the shore. She hones in on a few tributes who are currently running into the jungle, and smirks, "Let the hunt begin."

Cashmere doesn't say a single word in response, and neither does he. But – neither do they complain as they exchange a glance and go back into the cornucopia to collect more weapons.

There is very little to say, when one becomes a murderer for the second time in their lives.

* * *

They kill off another tribute later that day, once they venture into the jungle, but they can't seem to find anyone else. No one seems to mind overmuch. They've all had their fill of blood, and besides, the hunt is the most exciting part. That's what Brutus says, anyhow, as they make camp that night.

They camp out on the beach, choosing a spot that is shrouded in the jungle undergrowth but close enough to the shore to allow a complete view of the cornucopia. Despite not being able to find water, Brutus and Enobaria are in high spirits. They managed to fish for some oysters before the sun had gone down, and even though a drink wouldn't go amiss, none of them are worried. Sponsors love the Career pack. Water will not be difficult to get.

Cashmere lays down almost immediately, looking exhausted and thirsty. He sits nearby. He offered to keep the first watch tonight, mainly because he wants to watch the anthem. He needs to know if Elara is alive. The caustic rush of the bloodbath and the numerous canons that had become its backdrop has made him unsure. Perhaps she was one of those canons. Perhaps he was too far into his own sins that he had failed to realize it.

"She'll be okay," Cashmere breathes to him, so quietly that even the cameras don't have a hope of picking up her words. He clenches his jaw and nods, but doesn't say anything in reply. He's barely said more than a handful of words all day. He's too overcome with worry and disgust. Mainly towards himself.

When the anthem plays later that night, he doesn't see her face in the sky. He's so relieved that he feels it in his very bones – a deep welling reassurance that takes his breath away, it's so consuming. He is one day closer to the future that he yearns for. Just one day closer.

And yet…

A part of him wonders if he deserves that future. A part of him wonders if Elara isn't the stupidest woman on earth, for loving a man as ruined as him.


	39. And blind fools set upon this track

**Chapter Thirty Nine | And blind fools set upon this perfumed track**

"_This day's black fate on more days doth depend;_

_This but begins the woe others must end."_

_2.6, 118-119 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_The moments they exchange aren't always perfect. Sometimes, they are colored by experiences that shouldn't have any room to come between them, but somehow find ways of creeping past the barriers that have been set in place to ward them off. Sometimes, they press in between them like vagabond words edged into the lines of a song that is already completed._

_Gloss moves over her with such beautiful potency. He is so warm inside her, and he fills her in ways that make her breathless because she's always surprised at it, every single time. The way he takes her is so different compared to the ways her clients take her. He is soft where they are hard; conscientious when they are ignorant. And yet sometimes the hollow memories of all those Other times haunt her so deeply that the lines get blurred, and she forgets that it is him and not someone else._

_It is Gloss shifting his body into hers, meeting her gaze with eyes that brim with desperate desire and so many other things too, that she cannot name in this moment. It is him, not a client, who is stoking fire beneath her skin with every wayward thrust. It is him who groans and murmurs her name as his hips become more insistent and his movements become more unkempt and raw._

_She knows that, but for some reason when she looks up, she sees the face of someone else. It frightens her enough to make her inhale sharply and push away from him, murmuring, "Stop, stop – Gloss, stop," as she clenches down on his shoulders and shoves at him._

_And, even though he's already getting lost in the upward sweep of his own desire, he stops. Of course he does._

"_Elara?" he asks, and his voice is an edge of passion that, before a second ago, had no boundaries. Sometimes though, boundaries are precisely what they need. She feels an abrupt shard of guilt lace through her at the sight of his confused eyes, and takes a shaky breath._

_He doesn't move, even though he's still inside her and he'd very much like to. He isn't blind to the way she turns her eyes from his and clenches her fist into the sheets, blinking rapidly as if she's about to cry. Neither is he blind to the fact that he seems to be making her uncomfortable, hovering over her as he is. So, though it takes some effort on his part, he grunts and rolls off of her, separating their bodies. The chill that weaves over him at the absence of her warmth is like a cold bucket that douses through him._

_He stares at her in concern, and whispers, "Are you okay?" When she doesn't respond, he prompts, "Elara, talk to me." To say that he is worried would be an understatement._

_Though their lives are not their own and their nights are bought and sold like commodities, the moments they spend together are usually grounded. This reality might not spread to other areas of their lives, but in this room, it is usually enough to make the rest of it at least somewhat better. But he had seen the frantic way she'd looked at him just then, before she had turned her eyes away, and he has a feeling that he knows what had just happened._

_He waits though, for her to talk. This isn't a topic to tread into thoughtlessly._

_Elara groans and pushes her arm over her eyes with an embarrassed, "I'm sorry."_

_Gloss's eyes crease with concern. He props himself up beside her and reaches for her arm to gently tug it away from her face. As he does, he murmurs, "Don't be sorry. Just tell me if you're okay."_

_There's a certain adamance to his tone that makes her feel strangely at ease. Her eyes flutter open and she turns her head to look at him._

"…_I'm okay now." Her voice is small. Wary, almost._

_He searches her gaze as if he's trying to decide if she's lying or not. After a moment, he sighs, "Are you sure?"_

_She just nods dourly and swallows. "…I'm sure," she whispers, shivering a bit._

_The sight of her shiver makes him automatically reach out for her, but he hesitates at the last moment because he isn't sure if she really wants him to touch her. Elara notices, of course, and takes his hand, drawing herself closer to him silently. He takes the hint and pulls her against his side, exhaling softly at the warm press of her skin against him._

_He slowly spins circles into her back, staring up at the ceiling and wondering at her reaction. He knows it had been some sort of resurfaced memory of a client, but he isn't sure if he should ask her about it. Sometimes, it's best to leave memories like that behind. In his personal experience, it isn't always helpful to talk about them. So instead, he just stays silent, and feels a bit inadequate as a result…_

_Until her hand drifts down his body to curl around his erection and he rather forgets about everything that should be important._

_Jaw clenching, Gloss looks down at her, watching her fingers wrap around him, and groans, "Elara…you don't have to – "_

"_Shhh," she interrupts, and leans over him to press her mouth to his. Against his lips she whispers, "I want to, Gloss."_

_His breathing becomes harried and shallow. He watches through hazy eyes as she pulls herself up, hovering over him and pumping him through her fingers. Her touch is warm and insistent, and before long he's groaning into the mattress and his thoughts are spinning out of control. All the while she watches him with such dark eyes, laden with tempered desire that she pushes aside. A part of her rejects her own desire. It splits her in half, reminding her both of him and her clients, and she feels lost in the confusion of it all. So, instead, she just focuses on him._

_Watching him unravel from her touch is probably as addicting as having him inside her. His desire is so expressive. His body reacts to her in so many ways, and every groan and every glance does things to her that she can't put into words. Things she has never been able to understand, because they make her feel like a mirror that reflects all light._

"_Elara," he moans, fisting the sheets. His hips buck into her hand, and from the desperate crease of his eyes, she knows he's getting close. She pumps him faster, hovering over him and watching every move he makes because she doesn't want to miss anything. He is a symphony and she, an enraptured audience._

_When he comes, he does so with a curse and a low groan. His eyes close and his expression is loaded with so much pleasure that Elara can't look away. She thumbs over him and leans down to take him into her mouth, and the sight she makes has him groaning all over again and reaching for her. He grasps blindly onto her thigh as she kneels beside him, sucking at him until he bonelessly sinks into the mattress with a heaving gasp. And then she kisses his thigh, his hip, his abdomen. She lifts herself up, presses her body into his side and gathering him into her arms. She spins her fingers through his hair and watches as he turns his head into her, chest rising with a deep, satisfied breath._

_His eyes flutter open, and she smiles. He smiles back, hazel eyes creasing just so around the edges, and reaches out to splay a hand over her hip. He doesn't say a single word as his fingers slowly drift to the apex of her thighs. Neither does she, when their eyes meet and she silently hooks her leg over his waist._

_His fingers dip against her and she breathes out, nestling her face against his neck as he quietly reminds her why being with him is so very different than being with a client. He doesn't even have to say anything to do it; all he has to do is touch her with that gentle reverence and press soft kisses to her face._

_That's all it takes for her nightmares to wash away. At once, she is with Gloss again. Gloss, who is her anchor is this city that threatens to unmoor her from everything she has ever known._

_She whimpers against his neck when he slides his fingers into her, thrusting her to a slow climax. He takes his time, thumbing over her clit and rubbing her folds until she's quietly crying his name and shifting her hips into his hand. He tips her head back and kisses her, but really, the kiss is little more than a press. They linger there, breathing, eyes locked. And like she had done to him only minutes before, Gloss watches every twist of emotion that shatters through her gaze and absorbs every moan that leaves her throat until she comes undone. And, like her, he thinks the sight she makes is incredibly beautiful._

_For a long time, they just lay there, ignorant to the rest of the world. The sky could fall and they wouldn't notice. The very air could turn to fire and they wouldn't stop to wonder at the reason why._

_Then…_

"_Why do I always want to thank you when we're in bed together?" she slowly breathes, barely coherent._

_Gloss just looks at her and smiles._

"_I'm an exceptional lover," he quips, squeezing her waist playfully. And despite the solemnity of the moment, Elara bursts into laughter._

"_You are," she tells him, and her tone is half joking, half serious. He chuckles. But inside she thinks that he really is exceptional, in so many ways – and so after a moment she turns to him with far more gravity, and quietly repeats, "You are."_

_Gloss just stares at her for a moment, then pulls her into a kiss that makes all the words he could have said in response pale by comparison, because he is not sure how he could put all the love he feels for her into words alone._

* * *

Haymitch sends them a parachute that night, and even though it takes them a while to decipher the confusing message that comes along with it, they end up finding water using the metal tool.

Katniss is the one who ultimately figures it out. They're in the middle of eating their meal when she suddenly shoots up to cry, "Spile!" Naturally, everyone looks at her like she's crazy, until Katniss gestures to one of the trees and exclaims, "You drive it into the trunk and liquid comes out. It's used for collecting sap."

Perhaps if Johanna had been with them, they would've realized what the small contraption was ages ago. The one consolation is that, once they hammer it into the tree, water does indeed end up sprouting out of it. They all crowd around it, pausing to take turns drinking. They're so thirsty after walking the whole day in this humidity that they don't even care how graceless they are in the process.

"You're a genius, Katniss," Peeta tells her. To Elara amusement, Katniss looks faintly embarrassed and, had it not been so dark, her blush probably would've been more apparent.

After they have their fill and tuck the spile away, they all find a mat to sleep on, courtesy of Finnick and Mags, who had made quite a few of them over the last few hours. Elara lays down near the fire that they had put out after cooking the tree rats and tries to get comfortable on the hard ground. It isn't easy, and it takes her a long time, but somehow she manages to drift off into sleep.

And then she wakes up, and the camp is in a state of chaos as Katniss shouts at them to get up. Elara is utterly confused until she sees a wall of fog coming towards them and hears the word 'poison' from Katniss's lips. She isn't quite as confused after that.

They all tumble through the jungle, racing against the fog that spirals towards them, pressing closer and closer with every passing moment. They trip over gnarled roots, slam into trees, scratch themselves on low hanging branches. Elara feels a cut open up against her cheek as she blindly races forward, but the sting of it is nothing with all the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She is far more attentive to the way the fog is now seeping into her ankles.

It really is poisonous. She lets out a painful gasp and nearly trips, stumbling just enough to slow her movements down and to allow the fog to brush against her lower legs. The shooting pain that accompanies it makes her grit her teeth and press on, keeping her eyes firmly to the ground so as to avoid tripping again.

To her right, Peeta is not as lucky. He stumbles and falls, and Katniss barely manages to catch him before his heavy weight is pushing them both to the ground. Elara pauses, eyes wide as she takes in the distance between them and the fog, and then shouts, "FINNICK!"  
Finnick is ahead of them with Mags, but at the sound of his name, he turns. His eyes land on Elara for a brief moment before fluttering to Katniss and Peeta, who are now trying to stand up again. Katniss is pushing him back onto his feet, but Peeta looks like he's reached his limit. Finnick's eyes darken. He turns back to glance at Mags.

The old woman just smiles at him. Everyone knows that Finnick has to choose one of them to save. Elara grits her teeth and grabs Mags's arm, kneeling in front of her. "Get on my back, Mags. I'll carry you."

The look Finnick sends her then is beyond grateful. Elara purses her lips at him, far too stressed to acknowledge his expression, and hopes that she'll be able to carry Mags to safety with her lower legs in so much pain. She doesn't complain though. Mags is light and frail, and when she climbs onto her back, Elara has no problem lifting her up. Finnick leans in to press his lips swiftly to Mags's cheek before darting to Peeta's side. As he goes, Elara continues forward, deciding that it wouldn't be a good idea to wait.

"We've gotta grab both his shoulders," Finnick barks at Katniss, appearing on Peeta's other side and throwing an arm around his frame. Together, they heave Peeta forward. It's awkward and uncomfortable because they're practically dragging him, and as a result, their own balance is thrown off, but neither of them stops. The fog is inching towards their heels, crawling up their backs. Their pained grunts form a macabre symphony through the jungle. Elara just hopes they aren't being so loud that they attract other tributes.

Somehow, they manage to outrun the fog, but they end up running right into another danger that is just as deadly.

Mags's weight on Elara's back is quickly becoming more cumbersome the longer she runs. Physical strength is not her forte. She doesn't have the toned frame that Finnick does, or the muscled body that Gloss boasts. Though she's become far more athletically inclined since her first Games, when she was nothing more than a scrawny eighteen year old girl with no meat on her bones, Elara is struggling to hold up Mags. It isn't any surprise, really, that she ends up tripping right over a twisted root and they both tumbled down into a steep ravine. The combination of the fright to escape the poisonous mist and the added weight of the older woman doesn't help matters.

They aren't the only ones who fall, though. Finnick, Katniss, and Peeta also miscalculate the way forward, and soon they are all a heap of tangled limbs at the bottom of the incline, gasping for breath. Elara turns just in time to see the fog crash up against an invisible barrier and plummet away in the opposite direction. The heave of relief she feels at the sight is nearly as consuming as the fear that comes quickly after, when she realizes that she can't move her legs.

The fog must have paralytic effects, because Mags is also immobile. Elara grasps the elder woman's shoulders and lets out a pained groan as she twists around to face her, panicked for a moment until she sees the woman looking up at her with far more calmness than Elara herself possesses.

"Oh thank god," she mutters, and Mags gives her a jaunty little smile, looking entirely unconcerned at the fact that she can hardly move.

"The water – " Katniss croaks from slightly ahead, catching Elara's attention. The younger woman is partially immersed in a small pond that Elara hadn't even seen until this moment. Her forearms are dunked into the water and she's scrubbing it up her skin with a grimace. A moment later, Elara understands why.

"It takes the poison out," Katniss gasps, crawling forward with earnest. She slides herself into the pond with a cry, but the pain that accompanies the movement seems to dissipate quickly after.

Finnick groans, "You're right." He slips himself in too, and takes a faster approach as he dunks his head under with one quick move. The moment he does, wisps of fog begin to leech from his skin like little tendrils.

Elara pats Mags on the shoulder and tells her, "Hang in there a moment, Mags. We'll fix you right up."

The older lady hums beneath her breath but doesn't do anything else, and Elara decides that perhaps she should immerse herself before she returns to Mags. She can't very well lift her up in the state she's in.

She half crawls, half drags herself to the water's edge and, when she dips her hands into the pond, the searing pain that stumbles through her makes her grit her teeth to prevent a cry from leaving her lips.

"Fucking hell that hurts!" she settles for, glowering at the water as if it's the reason for the pain, even though it is in fact the cure. Finnick snorts at her exclamation and splashes her with a handful of water, making her flinch as it lands right on her face. She glares at him through the pain that it brings and he quips her a smirk.

"Bottoms up, Elara darling," he drawls, wading closer to grasp her by the forearms and drag her forcefully into the water with one heaving pull. She doesn't even have time to complain before he's dunking her into the pond. The pain of just getting her hands wet is really nothing in comparison to this. She barely manages to hold back a shout of agony before Finnick dunks her head and she releases her yell into the water instead.

When she resurfaces, she sneers, "That was unnecessary, Finnick." Though, she can't deny that his methods certainly worked, and a lot faster than they would have if she'd slipped in more slowly, too. At least she can feel her legs now.

Finnick hums, "You're welcome. Now help me get Mags."

Elara grumbles but doesn't complain, standing up on shaky legs and wading back to the muddy edge of the pond. Katniss helps too, knowing that the faster they get Mags to the water, the faster they can get to Peeta. He's just a lump on the ground, unmoving. He doesn't even look conscious.

Together, they drag Mags to the pond. Once they get there, Elara waves them away so they can go to collect Peeta. He seems to need more assistance than Mags does, who is at least aware of what's going on around her. Elara carefully pulls the old lady into the water and grasps her tightly as she whimpers against the pain. The fog once again curls out of her frame, rising from the water and vanishing as if it was never even there to begin with. It's a strange weapon that the Gamemakers have come up with this year, and it makes Elara wary. Who knows what other dangers lurk in this jungle?

Peeta is less quiet than Mags is, when Finnick and Katniss drag him into the pond. He cringes and lets out a little exclamation around the pain of the poison leaving his system, but at least he's making some noise. It means that he isn't dead, which is an all-around good thing.

Elara doesn't know what Katniss would do if Peeta died. Turning on her allies is probably the first thing that would happen, though. The Girl on Fire doesn't trust anyone but herself and the boy she has unwittingly come to love.

After only a few minutes, Peeta seems to regain his sense of self again. He even makes a little joke about how the fog had crept up on them. They're all relieved that they had survived this latest horror unscathed, and they figure that they deserve to rest a little before moving on to find a better place to camp out for the remainder of the night.

Peeta goes to hammer the spile into a tree and get water, and as he does, Finnick edges over to Elara and murmurs, "Thank you. For helping Mags. She…she means a lot to me." He reaches over to grasp the old lady's hand, and Mags gives him a gentle smile.

Elara smiles too. "Of course, Finnick." It hadn't even crossed her mind to leave Mags behind. She's grateful that her strength had held out long enough to drag the woman to safety.

Finnick opens his mouth to say something more, but Katniss very suddenly nudges him with her foot and mutters, "We're not alone."

He immediately shuts up, and they all tense a little when they notice that they are, indeed, not alone. There are monkeys in the tree line around the pond, and they are all staring at them with menacing eyes.

"Well fuck," Elara mumbles, and goes to grasp the long knife that's strapped at her side. The knife that she is pretty shitty at wielding.

Honestly. If she'd known that she'd be going back into the arena, she would have spent the last eight years learning how to fight. Hindsight is a bitch.

"Peeta, come back over here, and walk very slowly," Katniss says in a calm voice, though it's tinged with the slightest hint of panic. She does a remarkable job at covering that up, but Peeta clearly knows that something is amiss. It is a strange request, after all, and he knows Katniss well enough to hear the odd tone that her voice takes on.

He doesn't ask why he's being told to walk slowly back to them. He drops the spile back into his pocket and casually heads to the pond, but he makes one crucial mistake as he's reaching them: he looks up.

As if setting off a chain explosion, the monkeys immediately jump into action, apparently taking his glance as a hostile sign. The others barely have time to ready their weapons before they're being attacked by the creatures, who are coming in at them from all sides.

They're a lot bigger than they'd looked, before, and their claws are razor sharp. Finnick pushes Mags into the center of them and they all circle around her, trying to keep the monkeys from getting to their most defenseless link. Elara, who is not really a fighter and has been constantly reminded of that for the past two weeks, holds her knife with shaky hands. Her fear catapults through her, making her movements unsteady at best, sloppy at worst. She has no idea how she manages to keep the monkeys at bay. Maybe she's just so accustomed to pain now that she doesn't even feel the way they scratch at her.

And scratch they do. With adrenaline coursing through her veins, she hardly feels their claws puncture her skin, but she can see the blood from the cuts on her forearms, hands, and legs. The more she stands there, facing this threat, the more confident she becomes with her blade though. At the very least, it makes her hesitate a lot less when she drives it into the chest of an oncoming monkey, grunting at the effort it takes to slice the creature.

It lets out a little wail and drops. She barely manages to remove the knife before another one takes its place, and before long she draws another knife from the belt around her waist, stabbing blindly with unpracticed movements. She's either a better fighter than she'd thought she was when faced with danger, or she's just really lucky. She's more inclined to believe the latter.

The first moment that there's a lull in the attacks, Finnick grabs Mags and heaves her onto his back as he shouts, "Get to the beach!"

The others follow, their movements wild and frenzied as they race through the underbrush. There's no telling how far the beach is. Elara hopes it isn't far; she can hear the monkeys right on her heels. She swears, at one point, that she feels their fur brush against her leg as she dashes away from them.

There's at least one strength that she can claim to possess with no hesitation, and that's how fast she is. Her wiry frame cuts through the jungle faster than the others, and before long she's leading the way, shooting towards the beach that is thankfully coming into sight only a few meters away.

When they break through the jungle, they all collapse into the sand with heaving gasps. Like the fog, the monkeys seem to hit an invisible barrier too, which is ultimately what saves them. They all swivel around in the sand and watch as the creatures soundlessly howl at them and begin to disappear, lurking back into the trees within a span of moments. Elara grasps the sand and pants, chest rising and falling quickly as the adrenaline shudders through her body. The others seem to have similar reactions, for no one seems to know what to do with themselves at this strange success. It makes no sense that both the fog and the monkeys would be caged in by whatever barrier had kept them in place. This arena seems to be full of tricks and traps.

After a few minutes of tense silence, the group begins to relax. Finnick turns to stake out the beach, ensuring that they are safe. As he goes, Elara shuffles over to Mags and murmurs, "Maybe another dunk in the water? I don't think the poison is all out of my system yet."

The old lady gives her a pained smile and allows Elara to help her up. Together, they stumble to the water and step into it, breathing out in relief as it laps away the remainder of the poison. Finnick soon joins them, taking Mags's arm and letting Elara drift off into the water. She pushes her head beneath the waves once more before getting out and going to the jungle's edge to collapse. They're all exhausted from their hectic night. None of them had gotten very much sleep before the fog had crept up on them, and even though daybreak is only a short ways away, rest is on all their minds.

Katniss offers to take watch while they sleep off the effects of the night. Elara doesn't argue. The sand is a lot more comfortable than the jungle floor, and she is asleep within moments of shutting her eyes – utterly blind to the fact that, not so very far away, a pair of siblings are carefully watching the group from the tangled edge of jungle while their two allies sleep nearby.


	40. Not knowing of its endless quality

**Chapter Forty | Not knowing of its endless quality.**

"_Go hither, and with unattainted eye_

_Compare her face with some that I shall show,_

_And I will make thee think thy swan a crow."_

_1.2, 87-89 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Cashmere's first impression of Elara Winston isn't exactly stellar. In the beginning, Elara is nothing more than a tribute on her way to death. District 5 never has Victors. Her death warrant is practically signed and stamped. Cashmere hardly gives her a second glance during her Games, other than to feel somewhat sorry for the thin, wiry girl who looks so out of place in the Capitol's world._

_When she makes it to the final eight, Cashmere is surprised. Elara's strategy in the beginning of her Games is to make herself scarce. Apparently, she's rather good at remaining nondescript when she wants to. She avoids the other tributes so thoroughly that she's almost like a ghost. Whenever she is pushed into their path, she finds a way to disappear. Cashmere thinks it's smart of her, but she doesn't expect that it will save her in the end._

_She is utterly shocked when it does. Apparently, Elara Winston is a lot smarter than she appears. Cashmere watches her rig the lake with wire and electricity from the public viewing room on the top floor of the Training Center. The girl seems to know exactly what she's doing. Even Beetee, who is the resident intellectual among the Victors, looks vaguely impressed. He had won his Games using similar tricks. When Elara wins the Games, Cashmere doesn't even know what to say._

_Her first impression of Elara Winston, the Victor, is even less stellar. The girl clearly doesn't know the system. She stumbles her way around it like every new Victor does, but with an added heaping of inelegance. She doesn't make any attempt to appear happy for the crowds of Capitolites during her interviews later on. She doesn't understand that she is technically still in the Games – only in this version of them, her enemies are the Capitolites and the duration of it is forever. Or, at least, for as long as it takes her to fall into insanity or death._

_The girl is naïve. It's painfully obvious that she has no idea what she's doing. Perhaps if she had someone to look after her besides the other useless Victor from 5, she might have a chance, but…there is no one else, and Cashmere isn't about to take her under her wing. She's got a reputation in the Capitol that can't be shaken, and besides, she has no desire to become friends with the sarcastic teenager who had just been forced to throw her life away._

_Apparently though, her brother has other ideas. On Elara's Victory Tour, Cashmere watches him approach the girl. She thinks nothing of it, then. Gloss is accommodating to the new Victors. It is some misplaced sense of responsibility, perhaps, to look after the ones who are still too new to this world and don't understand the way things work. He doesn't hesitate to approach Elara Winston either, though she looks thoroughly uncomfortable in his presence. Cashmere actually finds it amusing. Her brother has a reputation too, especially among the female population of Panem, and rightfully so. He got his good looks from their mother, same as her._

_He appears to view the new Victor as a source of entertainment, but Cashmere doesn't realize just how many facets of this entertainment he engages in until later, when she hears rumors that attach her brother's name to Elara's. When she confronts him about it, he is utterly unapologetic and even blasé as he admits that he's been having something of an affair with the girl. It's…shocking. Gloss doesn't do affairs – at least not extended ones with the same woman. Even before he became a Victor, he's always been more of a fly by night sort of man, and after winning his Games and being introduced into everything that comes with being a part of Capitol society, he's stopped letting anyone through the thick barriers around his heart. He often jokes about how Cashmere is the only woman he needs._

_It is months after the Tour when Gloss and Cashmere are in the Capitol together. Their schedules don't always line up, but this time around they have combined interviews and photoshoots for one of the recent up and coming designers. They have separate apartments in the Capitol, which they often make use of. Even though they live in the same house in District 1, here in the Capitol the horrors of their lives are too close for them to feel comfortable being near each other at all hours of the day – and night. Cashmere prefers to deal with her problems alone, without her over protective brother breathing down her neck and demanding answers for the latest bruises that cover her skin. Even though she knows he means well, it infuriates her sometimes._

_In any case, it isn't as if they don't spend time together when they're both invited to the Capitol. Gloss had suggested that they eat dinner that night. Cashmere had agreed, despite the fact that she has a client at eight o'clock and can't linger too long. She goes to his apartment with the bag of take-out she had stopped to collect on her way, presses the passcode she had memorized years ago into the door, and steps into the familiar foyer._

_As they eat dinner in front of the television, she notices Gloss glancing at the clock more than once and raises an eyebrow at the strange atmosphere around him. It isn't until they're clearing up their plates that the mystery behind his erratic mood is brought into the light, though._

_The doorbell rings, and Gloss turns towards it so quickly that he nearly drops the plate he's bringing to the sink. Cashmere is rightfully confused at who is at his door and why he walks into the other room with such haste to open it, until…well, the sight of Elara Winston kissing the life out of her brother tampers down her confusion like nothing else. In its place, she feels vague disgust, but she isn't sure if it's because this is Elara Winston, or if it's because the sight of her brother kissing someone is just revolting in and of itself._

_She unapologetically clears her throat and drawls, "So this is the girl you're holed up with whenever you come to the Capitol?" She crosses her arms and watches Elara make several realizations, namely that her and Gloss are not entirely alone and that she hasn't really made the best impression on the sister._

_Cashmere sweeps her gaze over the girl, not making any effort to hide the judgement from her eyes. This version of Elara Winston is somewhat more filled out than the last one she'd seen during her Victory Tour. Physically, she is exactly the same, but there is an aura around her that is distinctly different. She appears to be somehow more comfortable in her own skin, and when she catches Cashmere's eye, she lifts her chin up in a stubborn way that makes Cashmere almost feel the urge to smile – almost._

_The way the girl glowers at her brother is also telling: she clearly hadn't known that Cashmere would be here. It would've been nice if her brother had mentioned it, if only to save her from having to witness him making out with this girl._

_And she is a girl. She is thin and wiry, and she has no idea what she's doing in the Capitol or how to deal with her newfound life. Cashmere isn't overly impressed._

_She doesn't know what her brother is thinking. Especially when he bursts out into laughter at this strange predicament they are in and goes to lean against the edge of the kitchen counter as he attempts to get control of his sudden mood change. Soon, there are two women glowering at him, and he seems to find it hilarious._

_Cashmere rolls her eyes at him and turns to Elara. Her voice is dry and humorless when she inquires, "Elara Winston. We've met before."_

_Their first official meeting during the Victory Tour hadn't been very stellar either, but Cashmere can at least say that it had been better than this one._

_Elara thinks so too. She crosses her arms, looking distinctly awkward, and mutters, "…Yeah. That's me."_

_If Cashmere wasn't fighting back the urge to vomit, she might have been amused at the fact that Elara doesn't sound very impressed either._

_Gloss chuckles, rubbing his cheek idly as he quips, "Well this is nice. Want a drink, Winston?"_

_The use of Elara's surname seems a little strange, considering that they had just been groping each other with everything they had. Then again, that's Gloss for you – completely backwards. Cashmere rolls her eyes again and scoffs, "I think we could all use a drink. I need something strong to erase the sight of you hanging all over my brother."_

_With that, she casts Elara an imperious look and is about to turn back to the kitchen when Elara stubbornly raises her chin and snarks, "He didn't seem to mind."_

_Cashmere is a little caught off guard at the obstinate words. Suddenly, Elara Winston doesn't seem to be quite as childish as she had a moment before, but Cashmere is too annoyed to care. To the side, Gloss is smirking vividly as he watches the two women glare at each other, and Cashmere has to forcefully tell herself not to pummel him for being so aggravatingly nonchalant. Younger brothers…_

"_Don't mind her, Winston," Gloss shrugs a moment later. "She's always had an overprotective streak. Older sister complex." Then he throws his arm around Elara's shoulders and leads her past Cashmere into the kitchen, much to his sister's obvious annoyance. He gives her a look as he passes her – some mixture of prodding amusement, as if he's silently telling her to behave – and Cashmere does not appreciate it._

_She scoffs and follows the pair, glaring at the back of Elara's head as she retorts, "Can't blame me. You're a total idiot half the time. Especially right now." The current reason that she thinks her brother is an idiot is fairly apparent based on the way she scowls at the new Victor._

_She doesn't know what her brother is doing, or why he's hanging around this girl. She thinks that he's gone insane. There are consequences to such an act, should they be discovered by President Snow. And maybe it isn't such a big deal for two people getting together in such a casual way, but Cashmere, of all people, knows that sex is never casual. These two are playing with a fire they do not understand. A woman's heart is not as black and white as a man's._

_Not that Cashmere is worried for Elara's sake. It's her brother that she's concerned with. She doesn't want him getting too involved with someone like this, when it would be so easy to get tangled up in something he doesn't want. Breaking off a connection like this isn't as simple as it sounds._

_Her brother has always been overly idealistic. He'd been idealistic about the Capitol and the Games before he volunteered, and idealistic about the fame that he thought he'd tap into upon becoming a Victor, and idealistic about the way the system works here in the Capitol. And now, he's being idealistic about being able to protect his heart from this girl who has no idea what game she's playing. Gloss has long ago said that he would never fall in love – love is not attainable for a Victor, after all, and he has never had any interest in that kind of weakness – but Cashmere believes that a decision like that cannot be made so easily, and she knows her brother better than anyone._

_He gets strangely attached to people and places. When he finds something he likes, he doesn't want to let it go. He's possessive like that, and as he sends Elara a smirking glance as he retrieves a bottle of liquor from the bottom cabinet, Cashmere sees everything that he doesn't. She's always been more inquisitive than him._

_No. Elara Winston does not impress her overmuch in the beginning. She doesn't like the thought of a girl like her capturing Gloss's attention to such a degree. And – it only gets worse, the longer their affair gets and the more time they spend together. Cashmere watches it all play out, and even though she tries her best to knock some sense into her brother's thick skull, she is thoroughly unsurprised when she doesn't succeed. Gloss has always done whatever he wanted to, and damn the consequences._

_He's an idiot like that._

* * *

Gloss is sleeping quite comfortably, considering he's lying on the ground in the middle of the arena, when he's woken rather rudely from his slumber by an insistent nudge at his side. Survival instinct immediately takes over when he sits up, grabbing his sword with one deft movement and narrowing his eyes to the world around him. His light sleep makes him more alert than he'd normally be. He doubts he'd be able to rest completely even if he tried.

It turns out that he isn't in danger though, and that it is Cashmere who has awoken him. The moment he reaches for his sword, she's leaning down to halt his movements, hissing, "Don't make a sound," to him through the darkness.

He obeys, becoming as still as a ghost as he looks over to see both Brutus and Enobaria sleeping only a few yards away. That Cashmere had only woken him is telling: she clearly doesn't want to alert either of their companions to whatever is going on, which means that their lives must not be on the line.

He's on his feet within seconds, letting go of the hilt of his sword and following Cashmere to the tree line. They've been camped out by the beach all night, exchanging shifts while the others got their rest. It's almost dawn – already, the sky is brightening into the dim pallor of dusty blue – and so it is easy enough to figure out the reason that Cashmere had dragged him out of his sleep.

Elara is on the beach.

He barely manages to hold in his relieved sigh at the sight of her group. It's hard enough keeping his features schooled into firm nonchalance. He can't have their Capitol onlookers wondering at the strange longing in his expression, especially after Elara had said during her interviews that the man she loves in going into the Games with her. He isn't sure if he should even bother with the pretenses at this point, but thoughts of what will come after the Games, should he survive until then, force him to keep his silence. He does not know what direction the wind will blow in, or if District 13 will get to them before the Capitol does. He doesn't want to give them any advantage over him or Elara, and if the Capitol knew that they are important to each other, it would be one more nail in the coffin.

"They just ran out of the jungle like their tails were on fire," Cashmere whispers to him, making sure to keep her form hidden in the shadows of the trees. Technically, they are the enemies. The Careers. Katniss Everdeen wouldn't think twice about putting one of her arrows into them.

Gloss peers through the dim light of early dawn and mutters, "Looks like they're all accounted for."

Cashmere hums and adds, "If not a little worse for wear."

He can just barely see Elara's form on the beach. The shadows shroud her just so, but he knows her body anywhere. She's lying on her side, curled up in the sand and clearly exhausted. Her other companions are in similar states. Apparently, whatever danger they have just escaped from is not nearly as terrifying as being so out in the open on the beach, otherwise they'd be less obvious.

The thought is a little concerning, but he presses that down, too. If he spends all his time worrying about Elara's safety, then he's putting Cashmere in jeopardy, and himself as well. He has to trust that she's strong enough to protect herself. If she ends up getting killed, he swears he'll find a way to bring her back just to knock some sense into her.

"It's the ideal time to mount an attack," he breathes, and glances back at Brutus and Enobaria, who have thankfully not moved in the last few minutes. They're both completely out. Murdering countless tributes in the span of an hour tends to do that to a person. He knows that much himself, for he feels it too – that deep set creep of utter exhaustion. It beckons to him to just give up, but he's far too stubborn for all that.

Cashmere seems to agree, and she also seems to know what he's actually getting at. He isn't saying the words because _he_ wants to attack Elara's group; he's saying them because if their District 2 allies wake up and see how close they are to the weakened Victors, they won't hesitate to draw their swords and finish them off once and for all.

The Hunger Games are aptly named. To people like Brutus and Enobaria, it really is nothing more than a game of survival – a chance to prove your worth. He had thought so too, once upon a time.

"They wouldn't be able to fend us off," Cashmere whispers, catching his eye with a serious look on her face. Elara is her friend, too. She might not care as much for the others, but she doesn't possess the same cruelty that their current allies do. Besides, she also knows what's coming, should they survive until the end. The thought of District 13 and the rebellion is tempting, and despite her reservations, there's no turning back now. It's far too late for that.

Gloss and Cashmere stare at each other for a long moment, as if they're silently communicating in ways that only siblings can. Then Cashmere gives him a short nod and turns back to their camp, takes a deep breath, and proceeds to kick Brutus in the side – a little more forcefully than she had her brother minutes before.

Brutus awakens with a grunt, sitting up and immediately grabbing his weapon. Enobaria is quick to follow him when he shoves her, and Cashmere wastes very little time when she abruptly says, "I saw a tribute in the trees over there. We should hunt him down before he goes too much farther and we lose him."

She points in the direction of the jungle, and Gloss pushes past her, seamlessly falling into her ploy as he asks, "Who was it? Did you see his face?"

Brutus just smirks. "Who cares who it was? A hunt is a hunt no matter the prey. Let's go."

Him and Enobaria stalk forward, shoving past Gloss. Cashmere rushes ahead of them to 'lead the way'. As she passes her brother, he sends her a barely discernable look of thanks and falls into the rear. He doesn't have time to walk back to the beach to catch one final glimpse of Elara before they're all delving back into the depths of the jungle, chasing a tribute that is not there. All he can do is hope that this wild goose chase won't backfire on them when Brutus and Enobaria don't get their daily dose of blood.

* * *

He doesn't know if it's orchestrated by the Gamemakers or just some twisted stroke of fate, but they actually do end up finding a tribute on their fake hunt. He feels sickened at the crush of relief that accompanies the gruesome death. He knows that if his District 2 allies had discovered that they were being had, they probably would've turned on them. Trust is a precarious thing, when the backdrop of it is the Hunger Games.

Gloss vaguely recognizes the Victor as being from District 8, but he can't remember the man's name. He feels a little sick at the relief that this brings, too. It's not any easier killing strangers, but the heavy press of guilt that the alternative brings is something he'd like to avoid. Not that he truly can avoid it – it's been following him around all day and all night, haunting him with the recent memories of the bloodbath and the way he had ruthlessly killed so many of the people who he's spent the last decade getting to know.

Enobaria skewers the tribute as Gloss and Cashmere hang back, watching the events silently as they stand side by side. They share the briefest look before turning back as Enobaria smirks, wiping blood off the front of her spandex suit with an aura of total nonchalance, as if she does this every day. Out of all the Victors who were Reaped, these two are probably the only ones who are happy to be here. Excited, even. They were born and bred for this environment and the fight is what they live for.

"Well that's one less tribute to think about," Brutus laughs, clapping his partner on the shoulder as he glances over at Gloss and Cashmere. He eyes them with a raised brow and jeers, "You two don't look very happy about it. What's your deal, anyway? You've been quiet since the bloodbath."

Gloss's jaw clenches. Cashmere responds before her brother can make a mess of things, as he's wont to do when taunted.

"We're just reserving our strength. The bloodbath was easy – it's getting to Everdeen and her star crossed love that's the hard part," she says in a clipped tone.

Enobaria just _tsks_ and says, "Where's your sense of adventure, Cash? Killing a pregnant girl will be simple. It's Odair we've got to worry about. He's lethal as it is."

Brutus nods. "We should start thinking of a plan in case we run into them in the woods. We're bound to at some point."

Gloss doesn't answer. He just crosses his arms and nods tightly, trying to appear as if he's in agreement. But something must show up in his face – some spark of disgust at the thought of making a plan to kill of Elara's group – because Enobaria immediately sneers, "What's wrong, lover boy? Worried that your girl is gonna die at our hands?"

Gloss immediately tenses, uncrossing his arms so that his hands are hanging at his sides, near his sword. Brutus eyes the movement with a knowing gaze and snorts.

"If I have my way, I'll kill her myself," he tells Enobaria, nudging her with his elbow as he stares at Gloss's tight expression. Cashmere frowns too and shoulders her way in front of her brother, lest he get any ideas that could potentially cause even more of a rift to grow between the allies. This alliance is shaky at best. They're all on different pages. Well, all of them except Brutus and Enobaria, who are equally interested in killing off everyone in this place without a second thought.

"The chances of her surviving are already low enough as it is," Gloss barks, hands fisted at his sides. He glowers at Brutus with fierce eyes and mutters, "I'm not stupid enough not to realize that."

Then he pushes his way past them, ducking further into the jungle without a backwards look. He's also not stupid enough to know that the Capitol undoubtedly heard every single word that was just exchanged. If they were wondering who that mysterious man was that Elara Winston apparently loves, then they don't have to wonder anymore. It isn't very difficult to connect the dots, now that they're all out in the open. Pretending otherwise would be useless.

Cashmere immediately follows her brother. Brutus and Enobaria just send each other smirking looks before they, too, duck into the trees and continue on their way. The conversation is clearly over. Gloss has had the last word, but he isn't the victor of this particular exchange.

* * *

The arena this year is far deadlier than the one that Gloss had ran through during his first Games. Each year is different; each Gamemaker has their own angle that they want to push forward. He isn't entirely sure what this angle is, exactly, but he doesn't like it. At all.

The sun has started to crest the peak of the sky when it happens. They're blazing through the jungle, hunting down the other tributes with no luck, so far, when suddenly all hell breaks loose. It's completely unexpected, the first bolt of lightning. So much so that they have no time at all to prepare for its coming. A fission of energy darts into the path ahead of them, only a few feet in front of Cashmere, who is taking the lead. She jumps back, right into Brutus's chest, who is walking behind her. After righting herself, they all stare at the gouged earth where the lightning had just split, cutting through the dirt as if it had been a physical blade cutting through flesh. Then, another one hits a nearby tree, and sets the entire thing ablaze.

That's about the time when they realize that they should probably make themselves scarce. Other tributes they can handle, but a challenge issued by the Gamemakers themselves is far too dangerous to meet head-on.

Natural disasters are common enough in the Games. They claim many lives. His own arena had seen flash floods and landslides which he himself had barely managed to escape from. But this – this is like nothing Gloss has ever experienced. This barrage of lightning bolts that rain from the sky as if they are drops of water is far more dangerous. He cannot anticipate where the next one will strike. It is a game of fate and chance as they dart through the jungle, blindly moving in whatever direction they see fit. There is no rhyme of reason to their path; they just want to get out of range as fast as possible. But – they have been walking since before dawn, and they've gotten deep into the jungle. There's no telling how long they have to run to escape this deathtrap.

Despite being out of the arena for over a decade now, neither Gloss nor Cashmere have let themselves go. The training that has been hammered into them at an early age in District 1's schooling system had left its impression on them. Being physical capable is not something that they had to accustom themselves to for the Quarter Quell. It takes a long time before they feel the sting of exhaustion creep over them. Fortunately, or not, their allies grew up to a similarly strict regimen and are just as capable.

The Capitol must be eating this up, watching their strong Careers run amuck through the jungle as lightning bolts pepper down around them like stray bullets. One strikes the limb of a tree only a few feet away as they race passed it, and the splintering sound it makes as it breaks and falls to the earth is noisy. Gloss barely has time to grab his sister's arm and pull her out of its trajectory before it collapses. It probably would have taken her out if it wasn't for his quick move, but she doesn't have time to even send him a grateful look as they run down a steep incline that nearly sends them toppling downwards.

Gloss stumbles as the ground suddenly drops. He catches himself but ends up twisting his ankle a bit in the process when he turns his body to the side to alter his momentum. He slides a few feet before regaining his footing and vaulting down the incline until the reaches the bottom. Enobaria isn't as lucky – the abrupt change in the landscape is so sudden that she ends up tripping over a root. She tumbles to the bottom with a grunt, barely managing to throw herself to the side before a bolt of lightning hits the ground that she had just occupied, mere moments before.

The dark part of Gloss wishes that it had hit its mark. One less Victor to worry about. Enobaria and Brutus are their allies for all intents and purposes, but they are not destined for District 13. He doubts they'd want to be even if they were brought in on the plans. Rebellions do not bring their district honor, and that is all they care about.

"We can't outrun this!" Cashmere shouts, holding her arm up as she barrels into a gnarled leafy branch. It's thin enough to give and let her by, but it snaps back and nearly hits Gloss right in the face. He ducks, but feels it cut into his temple. No matter; he presses on, shaking off the slight sting of it.

"We don't exactly have any other choice!" Gloss yells back at her. He's right on her heels, and Brutus and Enobaria are right on his. He feels like they've been running for ages, and he's starting to grow tired of it. Not only that, but his ankle is flaring up painfully every time he steps forward, and not even the buzz of adrenaline is able to completely hide the pressure of it.

Brutus roars, "Just keep going!" and angrily swats a branch out of his way as he throws himself forward.

Thankfully, they do end up outrunning it, but they don't do it without receiving any wounds. The good thing is that said wounds are all superficial scratches and cuts that won't pose a problem to them. The bad news is that their jaunt through the trees has beaten them up a bit, and they're exhausted and grumpy and angry at having gotten caught in a lightning storm of all things. By the time the lightning stops, they all collapse on the ground, gasping and cussing as they try to catch their breaths.

"Fucking Gamemakers," Brutus heaves, leaning against a tree and rolling his shoulders back. He sneers up at the sky, which is hidden by never ending leaves, and grunts, "You think that a little lightning will kill us? Give us something better next time!"

Gloss wants to throttle him for his thoughtless challenge. The Gamemakers will surely take it seriously, and whatever they deliver next will no doubt be ten times worse after Brutus's brave but stupid words. He looks over at Cashmere and they share a glowering, dark look, but they don't say anything.

The District 2 Victors are insane and brutal, and their alliance is precarious at best. Gloss just wonders if said alliance will last more than a couple of days before Brutus's impatience wins out, and he turns his hunting skills on them.


	41. This love is like a wistful bitterness,

**Chapter Forty One | This love is like a wistful bitterness,**

"_O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do!_

_They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair."_

_1.5, 104-105 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_They rarely talk about their clients unless there are remnants of those nights emblazoned over their bodies and they can't ignore the obvious messages behind those markings. Because Gloss's schedule focuses more on public appearances rather than the clandestine act of prostitution, it is Elara who more often bears these marks. Sometimes she has bruises on her inner thighs and around her hips, and sometimes she has scratches that make it apparent that her latest client had been rough for no other reason beyond the fact that he wouldn't get in trouble for it. Sometimes it is nothing more than a power play – an act of dominion over another. Those nights are worse than others, because she doesn't just have to shut away her humanity, but her pride and self-respect as well._

_Sometimes, she is so sore that Gloss just scoops her up into his arms and they lay together on his bed and do nothing but talk. Because he's gone through watching his sister deal with the same thing, he is overly aware of Elara's state on these nights. The fact that he doesn't try to push her for anything she isn't prepared for is an endearing facet of his complicated personality, and a part of him that she hadn't known existed, in the times before._

_He has a way about him that is almost reverent, when he decides that the situation calls for it. He can be so gentle with her, so chivalrous when he sees that she is in pain or is stuck in some nightmare that leaks out into her waking life. In those moments, he treats her like she's made out of glass, and even though Elara sometimes balks at the thought, she can't deny that it makes her fall for him even harder._

_Tonight, they're sitting on the couch in his living room, flipping through the channels of the TV as if they are a normal couple with normal lives, whiling the evening away like normal adults. It's heartbreaking in a way that Elara can't quite define, but that's okay because she can't define anything between them. The whole of their relationship is a contradiction that she can never quite wrap her head around even after all this time. She is quite sure that she loves him, but she doesn't know if he loves her, and even if he does it wouldn't matter. They can have moments like this, but those moments can't mean anything profound._

_Elara is leaning into his side against the crux of his shoulder as he balances his arm on the couch behind her head. His feet are resting on the coffee table, and she's curled up and is fanning out a woolen blanket over their laps as he grumbles about the lack of quality television. The Hunger Games are a hot topic right now because the next Reaping is only a few weeks away, and everyone in the Capitol is hyped up for the annual tradition that they love so much._

_They'd probably turn their attention to other things – mainly, each other – if Elara was in the mood for it. But as it is, she had only just returned from a client some hours before, and he had been a rough one. When she'd stumbled her way into Gloss's apartment, he had still been up and waiting for her, as he is wont to do sometimes. She has a feeling that tonight, his diligence had been due to the particular client she had to service – a man that she's had many times before, who always leaves her more than roughened up._

_The moment Gloss had seen her, his expression had darkened to a frightening shade of fury that he had barely managed to temper. They had spoken about his anger regarding her clients before. She had told him that sometimes talking about it only makes it harder for her, and he had told her that he can't help it; that seeing her all black and blue is enough to make his blood boil. He must have taken something from that conversation though, because he hadn't allowed his anger to get the better of him tonight. To Elara's surprise, he had actually turned his anger to other outlets._

"_I drew a bath for you," he had told her, jaw working even as he uttered the endearing words. He hadn't tried to help her into said bath. He must have taken note of the wary look in her eye and had decided to allow her the privacy she obvious needed._

_Sometimes, it takes her a long time to build herself back up after a client. Sometimes she wonders if she's even building herself up at all, or if the walls that she reconstructs are silly things made from weak concrete that will crumble at any moment. When she joins him afterwards, skin rubbed raw to erase another man's touch, she gives him a lingering kiss that tells him everything he needs to know, and Gloss just silently pulls her onto the couch and sits with her even though he's probably exhausted from spending the day doing back-to-back photoshoots and attending brand meetings._

_It is in the crease of these moments that she decides, once again, that she adores him._

"_The Hunger Games," he scoffs at her side, glowering at the TV as he switches the channel yet again. With a disgusted sheen in his eyes, he mutters, "These people are so obsessed."_

_Elara makes a sound of agreement but doesn't respond, and Gloss just flicks the channel again. The sight that meets them, though, makes him quickly regret doing so. He immediately sits up straighter, eyes trained to the scene playing out in front of him. Elara feels her heart thud painfully. She sits up too, and watches him reach for the remote to turn the channel again. But – his fingers are shaking too much, and he curses._

_She reaches out to take it from his hands and shuts the television off. In wake of the sound of canons going off and bloody screams, the living room feels utterly silent._

_Gloss is silent too. He sits, hunched over with his face in his hands, and takes a shaky breath. It seems that tonight, their nightmares mean to haunt them at all hours, for the sight of his Games reruns are enough to make him feel like they're closing in on all sides._

_He had been a different man back then, too wrapped up in the thought of the fame he would receive once he became a Victor and too determined to keep his sister safe from the hands of the Capitol to care what he did in the process of winning. Brutal, bloodthirsty – those are good words to describe his actions in his Games. He had done everything he needed to in order to win, and hadn't thought twice about selling his soul to accomplish that end._

_Elara silently watches him, curled up beside his body and wondering if she should reach out or not. Gloss is like a wild animal, sometimes. When he's in a certain state, he lets instinct overrule thought. She's learned that the hard way from years of waking him up from nightmares, only to be shoved down with his hands around her throat moments later. He's always horrified at his reaction, and she had been too at first. But she's learned how to handle him – what to do and say to bring him back to her. She just isn't sure if he wants to come back right now. Sometimes, they need space to handle their own problems, away from the other._

_But Gloss…his shoulders are shaking, and he looks exhausted and scared, and it's such a foreign look on him that Elara can't help but gently reach out to touch his arm. She feels very relieved when he doesn't immediately pull away. Instead, he lingers there for a long moment before inhaling deeply and lifting his face from his hands with a self-depreciating laugh._

"_Wasn't expecting that," is all he mutters, just to break the silence. He supposes that he should have. The Capitol always plays reruns of the Victor's Games throughout the year, and their obsession only gets more intense the closer the Reaping is for the next Games. It isn't the first time that he's seen his Games being played on the television – or Elara's, for that matter – but it had still taken him off guard._

_The sight of him swinging a knife ruthlessly into the side of a tribute's throat plays out behind his eyes, even as he opens them._

_Elara cautiously shifts closer to him and he exhales the deep breath he's been holding as he turns into her and falls against her body. His search for comfort is immediately answered when she wraps her arms tightly around him and rubs her hands over his back. She doesn't say a word. There is nothing that will make him feel better about this. She knows because she lives with the same memories._

_Instead of words, she uses action. He holds her so tightly that for a moment, he's worried that he's crushing her. But Elara is made of stronger stuff than that. She doesn't complain and just keeps him pressed against her until his breathing has evened out a bit._

"…_What a pair we make, huh?" he halfhearted jokes after a few lengthy minutes, voice muffled against her neck._

_Elara, who is busy running her fingers through his hair, hums in agreement. They fall silent for a while longer until she carefully asks, "Do you want me to stay?"_

_Sometimes, the memories of their Games and all the other horrific things they go through on a daily basis is enough to drive them apart for a time. She would understand if he wanted to be alone. She certainly wouldn't blame him._

_But Gloss just holds her tighter and hesitantly whispers, "…Do you want to leave?"_

_She pulls away to look at him and answers with a soft, "Come on. It's late and we should go to bed."_

_The look he sends her, all relieved and grateful, makes her lean in to kiss him. It's a brief kiss. He watches her as she presses her mouth to his, and then reaches up to caress her cheek. They sit there for a long moment before Elara sends him a little smile and goes to stand up._

_He lets her lead him into the bedroom, where they crawl onto the mattress and pull the blankets over them silently. He notices that she doesn't turn the lamp off but doesn't say anything about it. Instead he just pulls her against him and buries his face against her chest and sighs out, and even though he expects his sleep to be plagued with nightmares, it isn't._

_Elara Winston is his cure. He's known it for a long time now. She makes everything infinitely better. She takes his nightmares away with her presence alone, as if she is absorbing all of his despair and recycling it into emotions that are so light, they make him feel like he's floating._

_The horrors of the Hunger Games and the torment of clients has no power in the spaces between their souls._

* * *

Elara wakes up to the sun pouring over her body. Her immediate response is to cringe back into the shadows of the trees, for it is so bright. She doesn't get very far though, before she bumps into Finnick, who drawls, "Want a piece of me, Elara?"

His eyes glimmer at her in amusement, and she huffs at him. He's sitting behind her in the shade, weaving a more mats with Mags, who sits beside him. She sends Elara a calm smile when she looks at her.

With a grumble, Elara tells Finnick, "No, I really don't."

Finnick gives her a mock offended look. "How rude! You must be the only woman in the Capitol who thinks that way. Panem adores me, you know."

The corner of Elara's mouth tilts up at the tone of his voice. She snorts in amusement and sarcastically says, "Well I guess half the Capitol is insane." Her words make him chuckle. She's about to say something else when she idly starts scratching her arm – and then cusses when the itch only intensifies.

Finnick reaches forward to grab her wrist and says, "Don't scratch, you'll make yourself bleed." Elara's entire body is starting to itch. She gives Finnick a strained look and he shrugs, "We're all feeling it. I think it has something to do with the fog."

She groans, "Well don't we have sponsors?" She stands up and tries not to scratch at any parts of her skin, but it's so difficult that she ends up rubbing her palms against her arms and legs, trying to relieve the itching but wanting to avoid using her nails and accidentally breaking skin. It doesn't really work that well, which only adds to her annoyance.

To the side, Katniss grumbles, "You heard her, Haymitch. Send us something useful for a change." She flops back down onto the sand and glowers up at the sky, clearly as uncomfortable as Elara and the rest of them are. She already has several angry red scratches that go up the length of her arm before they disappear beneath the rolled up spandex sleeve.

Peeta decides to collect some water for them while Finnick and Mags finish the last of their bowls. The reason for their creation arrives soon after that, when the District 4 Victors wade out into the ocean and begin collecting mussels and oysters. In only fifteen minutes, they're all sitting on the beach with a meal in front of them, and even though Elara isn't too keen on the texture of raw seafood, it's certainly better than nothing.

They're halfway through their meal when suddenly the subtle beeping of a parachute sounds from above, and Finnick rushes to his feet to catch it. They all crowd around Finnick as he opens it up, abandoning their breakfast to see what has arrived for them. It's some sort of green paste from Haymitch, with a note that says,_ 'Something useful. – H'._

"Well at least he listens," Peeta says, nudging Katniss with a smile. Katniss just grumbles out an agreement and they all take turns smothering the paste onto their skin. The instant relief it brings is intense, despite the fact that they all look like sea monsters within moments of applying it.

Elara thinks it's hilarious to see the great Finnick Odair looking so unkempt. She smirks at him and drawls, "Your fans must be grieving over this new look." She chuckles when Finnick sniffs haughtily.

"I have very loyal fans, Elara," he returns, tossing the paste her way. She snatches it from the air and starts rubbing it over her skin. As she does, he smirks right back at her and adds, "Besides, you don't look any better."

She hums dryly in agreement and shrugs, "It's better than scratching our skin off, at least."

Once they're all green, they finish off their breakfast and are just eating the last few oysters when suddenly, a loud shout is heard from the other end of the beach. As one, they all tense and look up as three figures stumble out of the jungle. At first, they all assume them to be mutts, for they are a strange red color. But then…

"Johanna?" Elara says, tilting her head at the odd sight. She furrows her brow curiously, but after a moment, her confusion disappears. There is no mistaking the sound of that brash voice or the angry wave of her hands. That could only be Johanna Mason.

Finnick lets out a surprised laugh and stands up. He's running over to her within moments, calling, "Jo!" as he goes. Elara stands too, but she doesn't run after Finnick. She's content to wait until the group makes their way over the beach. The closer they get, the more apparent it is that the other Victors at Johanna's side are Beetee and Wiress. The relief that cuts through her at the sight of them is staggering.

"I thought we lost you for good," Elara says, grasping Johanna's shoulder and glancing at the District 3 Victors. Beetee looks a bit out of his element, though that isn't any surprise, but – it's Wiress that seems to have taken a turn for the worse since Elara last saw her. The woman is spewing nonsense left and right, her words jumbling together in an incoherent mess.

Johanna is clearly annoyed at whatever recent horrors they'd just gone through, for her voice is biting when she scoffs, "Yeah, well, I'm not that easy to get rid of." She sneers up at the sky, as if she's talking to the Gamemakers and not to Elara, and then cusses and turns to shove Wiress when the woman gets too close. "Shut up already!" Johanna hisses. Elara just sighs.

It is Katniss, though, who reacts to Johanna's anger. She draws her bow and spits, "Leave her alone," in a dark voice, much to Johanna's frustration.

Incredulous, she glares at Katniss and laughs, "Leave her alone? I'm the one who saved them from the bloodbath! I'm the one who dragged them through the jungle – for _you!"_

Katniss looks utterly confused at the statement, clearly not understanding why Johanna would save Beetee and Wiress for her. She glances over at Peeta, who shrugs, while Finnick clears his throat and drags Johanna over to the water before she allows her anger to give anything away. Saving Beetee and Wiress was all part of the plans, after all. They need Beetee and the wire he's carrying if they're going to get out of the arena.

Elara bites her tongue and follows Finnick and Johanna while Katniss takes care of the other two. The Girl on Fire is surprisingly gentle with those she respects, but Elara doesn't linger to watch the proceedings.

"Fucking blood rain," Johanna is saying as she scrubs her face. Now that she's half submerged in the water, the blood washes off easily enough, leaving grotesque streaks over her skin as the water turns a muddy shade around her form.

"Blood rain?" Finnick repeats, raising his eyebrows.

Johanna barks out a laugh. "It came down so heavy that we ended up running through the woods blind. Lost Blight during the chaos." She pauses, frowns, and adds in a quieter voice, "He wasn't much, but he was from home."

The words make Elara chew on her lip, thinking of Harley.

"This arena is full of tricks," Elara says, crossing her arms with a frown. Her and Finnick fill Johanna in on the fog and the monkeys, and Johanna agrees with Elara that something about the arena is definitely strange this year. It also seems a lot smaller than it usually is, as if they're all in some tiny capsule. If that's the case, Elara wonders why she hasn't seen any sign of Gloss or Cashmere yet. A part of her is thankful that they've keep to themselves so far, knowing the repercussions of such a reunion with Brutus and Enobaria at their sides. But she's also worried about them. How could she not be? Both of them are important to Elara in their own ways.

Johanna scoffs as she washes the blood from her face, and loudly says, "A drink would make this place a little better."

Finnick smirks and shrugs, "Well, Haymitch didn't send any alcohol, but we can get you some water."

Elara laughs and goes to tap a tree. As she walks back to the group to find the spile, she can't shake the feeling that something is about to shake the safe haven that they have created here on the beach. This is the arena, after all, and nothing sacred ever lasts in this fabricated hell.


	42. That hangs on my shoulders like a weight

**Chapter Forty Two | That hangs upon my shoulders like a weight.**

"_O, I have bought the mansion of a love,_

_But not possessed it; and though I am sold,_

_Not yet enjoyed."_

_3.2, 26-28 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Gloss has been a part of the system for years now. He knows how things work in the Capitol. He knows all about the particular manipulation that Snow uses on his Victors. He understands the layers of it like he understands the facets of his own character. And, even more than that, he knows what sort of life Elara Winston lives. He knows it all, and yet he's still taken aback when he sees her sitting at a table with a man that is not him, sharing a drink and laughing as if everything in the world is exactly as it should be._

_He hadn't come here on purpose – hadn't known that she would be here with a client. If he had, he would not have come to this neighborhood. He wouldn't have even left his apartment. Anything to save him from the sight of the woman he loves with some other man._

_It's like his feet have a mind of their own as he stands there on the sidewalk, staring through the large windows into the dining room of the restaurant. His body seems to betray him with every second that passes. He just can't seem to move – can't look away from the scene that plays out in front of him even though he desperately wants to._

_It isn't a strange thing, that her client would take her out. The men and women who buy the Victors love to flaunt them in public. They love to stake some social claim on them. It's a way to show everyone else that they have enough money and fortune to be able to hang out with some of the most well-known celebrities in Panem. It isn't as if Gloss is surprised by this. He knows that Elara sometimes goes on dates with these people. He's done it too several times. They can't very well say no._

_Gloss isn't naïve or foolish when it comes to the Capitol. He's lost his idealism years ago, the moment he had stepped outside of his arena and was pushed into the dark underbelly of this revolting society. He's been tempered by this place for so long that sometimes, it feels like he is an extension of it; that he is no longer a man, but only Victor and nothing more._

_He knows everything he needs to know about how this city works, but he still feels his heart do a nauseating flip in his chest when he watches Elara's client take her hand and press a kiss to the back of it. His jaw clenches down so hard that he nearly bites his tongue in anger. All he can think of is what other parts of Elara this man will try to claim, later on after this faux-romantic date is over and they get to the real reasons why this client has spent a small fortune on a night with the sarcastic Victor from District 5._

_Images spiral through him, haunting him behind his eyes. Elara, in bed with that man. Elara, kissing that client the way she kisses him. Elara, being forced to bandy pleasure away like it is nothing more than a handful of coins tossed into a fountain. And, this man, taking those coins as if they are just pocket change._

_Gloss grits his teeth hard, and despite his better judgement, he enters the restaurant. He knows he shouldn't get in the way of this. He knows what will happen if he does. There are consequences for these kinds of actions, and they don't just extend to the retribution of the Capitol itself. This will hurt him, and it will hurt her. He shouldn't do this._

_He does it anyway._

_Elara sees him first. It's hard not to notice Gloss Augustine, Victor from District 1. People stop and stare at him as they always do whenever they see a Victor. Celebrities of their caliber are like wild animals to Capitolies – they point and gape whenever they see one, as if they are rare novelties. Gloss is used to the attention. He's been a part of the system for too long now for it to bother him._

_What does bother him is the way Elara stares at him like she's been caught doing something underhanded, even though she hasn't and they both know it. She isn't here because she wants to be. She isn't on a date with this man because she likes him. And even if she did, it isn't as if she would theoretically be cheating on Gloss. They aren't in a relationship. At least, not one that has ever been verbally defined._

_Her client seems to notice that her attention has been drawn away, and turns to see what she's looking at. When he catches sight of Gloss, his eyes light up with excitement and he raises a hand to invite him over. Gloss pauses for a split second, because he knows he shouldn't accept that invitation. He should leave Elara to her client because it's easier that way, even though it hurts. He should walk out of here and pretend that this never happened._

_He doesn't._

_As he strides over to their table, Elara closes her eyes and looks like she's in pain. It should be enough to stop him, but…well, Gloss is a possessive man, even when he doesn't technically have the right to possess her._

_What does it matter that she doesn't belong to him? That they can't be in an actual relationship? He has her in every other way that matters. He's had her body so many times he can't even remember them all. He's had her loyalty for years now, despite it being a wayward thing that falters in moments like these. And even though she's never told him outright and he's never asked, he's pretty sure he has her heart._

_She definitely has his._

_He pulls up a chair and sits down, even though he knows he shouldn't. He's never been very good at listening to the little voice in his head that tells him what is right and what is wrong._

"_Gloss Augustine, wow!" the client says, tipping his head back with a laugh. "This is incredible! Just think – I'm having dinner with two Victors tonight! You two are friends, aren't you? I guess you must've been surprised to see us here. Why don't you order something?"_

_Gloss turns to stare at the man with barely hidden disgust. Elara sees it immediately and leans in to shakily laugh, "I'm sure Gloss is way too busy to – "_

"_I will, thanks," Gloss interrupts, eyes cutting over to Elara's. She clamps her mouth shut. The way her eyes glimmer at him does, admittedly, make him hesitate for a moment as he reaches for the menu. She is not happy. He can see that clearly enough from the sharp cut of her eyes, which simmer with blue. He should probably heed that look, but…_

_Instead, he just opens the menu and gives her a sharp glance of his own. A part of him regrets it when her eyes narrow at him just so, but it's only a small part – easily ignored._

_It isn't as easy to ignore the client. He's a thin man, with a slight dusting of grey hair along his temples. He's got on a pair of thick rimmed glasses and is somewhat handsome, in an intellectual way that Gloss scoffs at. All things considered, he isn't as bad looking as some of the clients Elara has had, which is in itself reason enough to hate the man. The other reason is revealed a few moments later, when the client laughs again. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, scratchy and hard on the ears, and it is accompanied by a generous heaping of Capitol sensibilities – which, in Gloss's humble opinion, translates to utter idiocy._

"_I was just telling Miss Winston what sort of job I have," the man says in a rather posh voice that Gloss immediately hates, though his reasons for hating it are somewhat broad. The Victor keeps his eyes trained to the menu as the man chuckles and explains, "I'm one of the Gamemakers, you see."_

_Gloss sees Elara cringe a bit out of the corner of his eye, and he knows why. He would hate any client, no matter who they were, but a Gamemaker? Gloss pauses at the subtle spin of irony and leans back, casually crossing his legs as he peers over at the man. If the client catches sight of the hard sheen of Gloss's eyes, he doesn't do anything about it. Elara does, though._

_She nudges his leg under the table and gives him a look, which Gloss purses his mouth at. Oh, she is furious with him. He knew he shouldn't have done this. He can't quite find it in him to feel sorry about it though._

"_A Gamemaker?" he inquires a moment later, turning to study the man with eyes that gleam with fake interest. He doesn't let his anger into his voice. He's been around the Capitol enough times to know how to pretend. With a raised eyebrow, he says, "And were you telling Winston what sort of things do you do, as a Gamemaker?"_

_The twisted way Elara's surname comes out is a far cry from the teasing way he normally says it._

_The man looks utterly enchanted to have Gloss Augustine ask him questions. He straightens up and eagerly says, "Oh you know, I help come up with ideas for the new Games, and my team implements them into the servers. I've been working on the new arena construction for the last few months now. It'll be an interesting setting this year – something we haven't done in a while."_

_Talking about the Hunger Games to one of Elara's clients in a public place is probably not a good idea. Gloss knows this, too. So does Elara._

_She clears her throat and pushes her plate towards Gloss, trying to change the subject as she says, "You should try the lamb, Gloss. It's delicious."_

_He sends her a sharp look and she sends one right back, as if she's daring him to make a mess of this already messed up situation._

_The client doesn't seem to notice the cutting looks that are being exchanged in front of him and just nods, "Oh, it's very good." Then, with an affectionate chuckle, he spears a piece onto his fork and lifts it up. "Elara," he prompts, holding it out for her. It's obvious that he means to feed it to her, and Gloss's jaw audibly snaps shut._

_She pauses, wondering how her attempt at changing the subject had backfired so brutally. At the last minute, she laughs and takes the fork instead of leaning it to let the man feed it to her himself. As she chews on the lamb, she looks anywhere but at Gloss._

"_Mm…really good," she awkwardly mutters. Her client hums in a low, insinuating manner that makes her feel distinctly uncomfortable. It makes Gloss clench his hands in his lap._

"_I thought you said we were going to see that play," Elara quickly says, glancing over at the clock on the other side of the room. "We'll be late if we don't leave."_

_At this, Gloss turns to send her another look, and she purses her lips at him. He barely manages to rein in his scowl at the thought of her being flaunted any further by this Gamemaker, of all people. If he could, he would drag her out of this restaurant right now and put an end to it. But…_

_He can't. He can only bite his tongue as the client makes a surprised sound and says, "You're right! I guess I got a little too excited to see you, Gloss." Then, pausing, the man earnestly adds, "Maybe we could do this again sometime. All have dinner together, that is. How fun would that be!"_

_Gloss gives him a strained smile and faintly replies, "…Mmhmm…fun."_

_Elara can't get out of her chair fast enough. Gloss doesn't make a move though. He just sits back and watches as the client helps her into her coat and holds out his arm for her. His gaze lingers on the way she reaches out to slip her hand into the crux of this stranger's elbow, and his mouth tightens._

"_Goodbye, Mr. Augustine – it was such an honor to see you tonight," the client gushes._

_Elara just stares at the top button of Gloss's shirt and says in a clipped tone, "Goodbye, Gloss."_

_Gloss pauses at her voice and slowly says, "…Maybe I'll see you later, Elara."_

_His words are an obvious invite for her to stop by his apartment later tonight, once her…business is finished up. It isn't rare for her to go to him afterwards. Some of their most heartfelt conversations have been had on nights like those. As he studies her expression, though, he isn't entirely sure that she'd be interested in a heartfelt conversation tonight. She looks more interested in throttling him for making everything so much harder than it should have been._

_Elara purses her lips and only says, "Maybe," before her client leads her out of the restaurant. Gloss watches her until he can't see her anymore, and even then, his eyes remain trained to the doors._

_He shouldn't have gone for a walk. Shouldn't have even stepped foot outside of his apartment._

"_Would you like to place an order, sir?" a waiter suddenly asks to the left, no doubt wondering at the way Gloss is sitting in front of the menu that is still open on the tabletop. He blinks down at it with a frown, having forgotten all about it._

_To be honest, he's rather lost his appetite._

"_No," is all he says, and gets up. The waiter looks understandably confused, but Gloss doesn't linger to explain it all to him. A Capitolite like him would never understand anyway._

_He steps back out into the faded evening and shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling a little lost. He isn't sure what he should do or where he should go, so instead he just idles there on the sidewalk in the same manner that he had idled there before, when he first saw Elara sitting at the table and letting another man see her smile. He shouldn't be jealous. He's Gloss Augustine, and that man had been nothing more than a client. And yet…_

_His heart feels like it's laden with weights, sinking down beneath the lapping waves of the deep sea, and he doesn't try to reel it back in or stop it from disappearing on him. In a way, it's far too late for that anyhow._

_If Elara is that sea, then his heart has long ago vanished beneath the white foam of those circling waves._

* * *

As the sun crests higher in the sky, the air thickens. The Careers are frustrated by the atmosphere. The humidity makes their outfits stick to their skin, despite the breathable quality of the fabric. That, and the fact that they're all hungry, is not helping the already caustic energy of the group.

After the lightning incident, they've been tense and careful about their direction. Brutus has set a harsh pace, moving them through the undergrowth with quick strides. He's been gripping his spear for hours now, fingers white and countenance stern. At his side, Enobaria is in a similar state. They are looking for someone to take their anger out on, and Gloss and Cashmere are just hoping that they find someone – or something – before they decide to turn on them.

The strain of the group has only intensified after the barbed words that were exchanged earlier. Gloss is still silently fuming at the way Brutus had brought Elara into the conversation, saying in so many ways that he meant to kill her if he had the opportunity. There has never been any bad blood between Brutus and Elara in the past, mainly because Elara had kept to herself where it concerned the District 2 Victors. That doesn't matter though. They are in the arena, now, and killing Elara would make for a fine bit of drama that would surely vault Brutus into a more favorable position with potential sponsors. Not that they currently lack any of those.

So far, they've received canteens of water and some packages of dried fruit and meat since the start of the Games. It's been enough to stave off their thirst and hunger over the last few days, but not enough to really satisfy any of them. Rationing their gifts between four people means that each one gets less of everything – another reason why Gloss is so tense, because he's just waiting for Brutus or his partner to decide that they aren't worth sharing their resources with.

Besides their gifts, they've been able to hunt and forage a bit of food. Cashmere had quickly discovered that the nuts that grow on one variety of tree are edible, and they've managed to kill a few of the animals that creep through the undergrowth too. The other night they had been able to catch one of the colorful birds that nests above them in the treetops. It had made a paltry meal, though. Rationing, and all that.

They've stumbled upon a few tributes by now, all of whom had met their end at the tip of one of their weapons. It sickens Gloss every time he has to watch the life of someone he knows flee from their eyes, but he can't very well sit back and do nothing when a tribute unwittingly steps into their path. If he held back, the District 2 Victors would question at their loyalty and their usefulness. It's a fine line that they're balancing on, this contradiction of desires.

To survive, they must kill. To ensure that the balance of their group remains intact, they must pretend to be as bloodthirsty and they once were, back in their own Games. But – they are not those types of people anymore. Cashmere does a good job making it seem as though she is, but Gloss can see the tremors in her hands whenever she draws her knives. He wonders if she can see the signs of his own transformation just as clearly.

The one consolation to all of this is that, despite the sins he has committed in his first arena and in the one their current in, his soul longs for redemption. At least he has that. At least he knows that, in some small way, he is not the ruthless killer of his past.

He wouldn't presume to claim that Elara's presence in his life is what has changed his disposition. To lay claim to only one variable would be silly. He has spent the last decade mourning the loss of his innocence – an innocence he did not even know he had until he had lost it entirely in the arena. Since then, all of his experiences in the Capitol, from his manipulated photoshoots to the occasional client he would be forced to service, has altered him from the man he once was. And yes, Elara has also changed him in ways he cannot express with words alone, but those changes are subtler, and deeper. They have overturned some core part of him. It is the cumulation of all of these things that make him want to cringe whenever they come across another tribute. That he doesn't outwardly express his disgust is only because he has learned how to school his features and hide his true thoughts from the Capitol for years on end. A blessing and a curse.

Still, he can't stop the slight shake of his hands whenever they make camp for the night and wait vigilantly for the anthem to play. The faces of the fallen are also blessings and curses piled up together like tangled thorns. They symbolize a lessening of the dangers around them, but also the bloodiness of their own actions. Mercy is a transient thing in this place. It does not exist.

What's worse that even that is the curdling fear that shakes him to his core every single time he watches the faces above him. Every time, he thinks that it will be Elara's face he next sees gracing the fabricated stars. Every time he does not see her outlined in their constellations, he is taken by a relief so encompassing that he can barely breath – yet the fear is still there, always, for no one is safe here, and the cycle continues to spiral out of his control every night, with every anthem, at the sight of every face.

Despite his careful attempts at reserving those fears and pushing them out of sight, he knows that Brutus and Enobaria are aware of them. Like hounds sniffing out any sign of weakness, they watch him instead of the sky. They do not care about who has fallen – if anything, they mourn the loss of a tribute that they themselves had not killed. Killing excites them. Their souls are blackened by their upraising and their experiences, but unlike Gloss, they have not made any attempts or have shown any interest in redeeming themselves.

Maybe it's something that's been hardwired into them since birth, this ruthlessness. Their need to bring honor to their district. District 1 is not so very different in that way, but the militant quality of life in District 2 far outweighs that of Gloss's home. Perhaps it is because District 1 is known as the luxury district, and despite their Career status and their weapons training, there is a lighter nature to the place than there is in District 2, which boasts Peacekeeper training and loyalty to the Capitol above all else.

Gloss doesn't know and he doesn't care. What he does care about is the fact that even though he's not being overly obvious about his fears, his allies see them as clear as day. Elara Winston is his weakness and they know it. They've known it for years now.

Had he known that he would be put in this position, he would not have been so obvious with his affection for her during previous Games seasons, when all the Victors were gathered in the Training Center as mentors. He would have been more cautious and more secretive. He wouldn't have allowed the other Victors to suspect that his feelings for Elara ran any deeper than he outwardly expressed.

It is all backfiring on him now. Every single moment – every look, every touch – all tangles together to form a case against him. And it is not just Brutus and Enobaria that he worries about. It's the Capitol, too.

Snow's knowledge of Elara and him is concerning, but they have been able to play off their connection as if it is only trivial and casual. But now, with the entire country at least partially aware of their connection, there is no safety for either of them. No safety at all, unless they reach District 13, where they might finally be free from the torment that has followed them for so long. Even that is almost too much to hope for. He does not bother spreading his hope too thin. If Elara, at least, reaches District 13, then that is all he can ask for. If Cashmere is able to be saved, then that is even better. But – he has little hope for himself.

All that he is focused on now is that he successfully placates the bloodthirst of his allies and redirects it to other tributes. To distract Brutus from his previous decision to kill Elara the first chance he gets – that is all that is important. It's almost funny, the way this determination rises up within him. He has never known himself to put someone else before him, unless it is his sister. Perhaps that is yet another thing that has changed within him in the last decade. Another alteration that has made the roots of his consciousness shift just a little to the side.

Selflessness – now that is not a word he is accustomed to. Or at least it wasn't, until he has found himself in this particular situation, in this arena, in these Hunger Games, with the woman he loves teetering on the brink of life and death.

"You should eat something," Cashmere murmurs to him, glancing over at her brother as he sits, vigilant, several feet away. The Anthem has already come and gone, marking the end of yet another day. They've lost track of how many days have passed, but it feels like an eternity.

Cashmere frowns when he doesn't answer her, and edges closer to offer him a bit of the dried fruit that they had received days before. It's the last of it, but none of them are worried about their lack of food. They have lines of sponsors who are willing to send them whatever they desire, and even though the Girl on Fire is one of the most popular additions to these Games, they are still the Career pack. Keeping them well fed and strong only makes for a more dramatic Games, after all, when they finally cross paths with each other.

Gloss holds back a sigh, not arguing when he takes the offering of fruit. In truth he isn't that hungry. The jolt of anticipation that hasn't left his system for days now erases what hunger he might have felt. He eats anyway, knowing that it will assuage some of Cashmere's concerns.

"I'll take first watch tonight," Enobaria announces as she sits down against a tree. She shifts a bit to get more comfortable, but it's a lost cause. Sleeping in the jungle isn't very appealing with the tree roots and the hard ground to contend with.

Brutus sits down nearby and says, "We should head to the beach tomorrow. Stake out there and wait for the other tributes to show up."

Enobaria immediately agrees, "It's been slow going out here."

She's referring, of course, to the fact that they have only killed one tribute today. One death is apparently not enough for them, for they're growing impatient with every day that passes. Gloss has mixed feelings about this strategy though. The last time he'd seen Elara, she had been on the beach. What if they run into her again? What if Brutus finally has his chance to kill her, as he has vowed he would?

He shifts and murmurs out an agreement, but inside his stomach is roiling. He knows that he can't avoid the beach forever. Sooner or later, Brutus and Enobaria are going to wonder why Gloss and Cashmere are leading them away from that place. It's far better to let them go where they want and avoid the suspicion – and repercussions – that they would experience if the District 2 Victors realized that they are being had. Surely, if they had known that Katniss's group had been on the beach that day, that they had been only a walking distance away, the ruthless Victors would have a fit. It had been the perfect opportunity for the Career pack to charge in and finish off their main source of competition, after all. The group had been obviously injured and exhausted, and half of them had been asleep by the time Cashmere informed him of their presence. Finding out that they had missed an opportunity like that would spell disaster. They would want to have their revenge.

But what will happen if they return to the beach and find that the other Victors are still there? It's a large group – eight against four. The Careers are vastly outnumbered, but strategically, it would be possible to finish them off. Half of Elara's group are not fighters, after all, including Elara herself.

He glances over at Cashmere, who purses her lips at him but doesn't say a word. He can't talk to her about this, not yet. Not when Enobaria and Brutus are still awake. Perhaps later, when one of them has the night watch, they can hammer out a plan of some kind. Gloss isn't sure what sort of plan would work, though.

If Cashmere and him turn on Brutus and Enobaria, would Katniss not then turn on them? Elara is the only one in the group who completely trusts the District 1 Victors. Would she be able to stop the others from taking them out in the thick of the fight? It's unheard of for two Careers to join forces with another group, especially this late in the Games. Gloss can't think of another instance of it happening in any of the Games he remembers seeing, even before he was a mentor. Just because this year everything is different doesn't mean it's _that_ different.

"Wake me up for my watch," Brutus tells Enobaria, who grunts in agreement. Then, he turns to shoot Cashmere and Gloss a sneering smile and drawls, "Sweet dreams. Hopefully, tomorrow will be more fun."

Gloss sends him a tight smile that falls flat, but he doesn't care. Brutus doesn't, either. The District 2 Victor merely rolls onto his side, and it doesn't take very long for him to fall asleep. The subtle snoring is telling enough.

Unfortunately, Gloss doesn't receive the same luxury. He dozes, trying to get a little bit of rest, but sleeping beside two ruthless killers is not an easy task. On top of that, he's even more concerned than he was before, now that he knows they'll be going to the beach tomorrow. When he does find sleep, it is too restless to do him any good, and nightmares of what may happen in the arena keep him from getting any real respite.

He dreams of Elara being skewered by Brutus's spear. Of Enobaria stabbing Cashmere in the back with one of her knives. Of himself, failing to protect either of the people he loves. He dreams of dark things that crawl through the jungle underbrush. Things of dust and shadow. Things he cannot see.

He dreams of death.


	43. In nighttime hours, its blooms do sprout

**Chapter Forty Three | In nighttime hours, its gentle blooms do sprout;**

"_Amen, amen! But come what sorrow can,_

_It cannot countervail the exchange of joy_

_That one short minute gives me in her sight."_

_2.6, 3-5 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_After the debacle at the restaurant, where Gloss had crashed Elara's date, he waits up to see if she'll come to him later that night. He must wait for hours. Every sound has him jumping towards the door, waiting for it to open. Every second is a torture to itself, because it means that he is still alone with his thoughts. He ends up falling asleep on the couch, still dressed in last night's clothes with the TV flickering in the background._

_That is how Elara finds him. When she enters his apartment early the next morning, arms laden with breakfast that she had picked up from the café down the street, he is still sprawled out on the couch as if he hasn't moved once. After she sets the breakfast down on the kitchen counter and slowly approaches him, she realizes that he probably hasn't, if his wrinkled dress shirt has anything to say on the matter. She feels a bit guilty that she hadn't come earlier, but to be perfectly honest, she had needed some time away from him._

_To say that she had been angry with him would be an understatement. Her evening was already ruined at having to spend so much time with her client, but having Gloss arrive on the scene and get in the middle of it had startled her. To have him bear witness to her forced dates and clientele had been a hell that she hadn't known existed. To have him sit there across the table from the man that had bought her for sexual purposes had been a nightmare._

_He must've thought so too. She sighs and goes to pick up the bottle of whiskey and the empty glass sitting beside it on the coffee table. Gloss is still sleeping as she cleans up, putting the liquor back into the cabinet and disposing of the glass near the kitchen sink. Then, with another sigh, she turns to the takeout box of breakfast she had ordered and brings it into the living room with two plates. After setting it onto the table, she pauses for only a moment before sitting on the edge of the couch beside the man who has wreaked so much havoc on her life._

_As she stares down at the man she has accidentally fallen for, she thinks that he is like a shooting star brimming with every wish she had ever had and even the ones that she hadn't consciously formed. He is a man of many complicated layers, with a potency of character that amazes her. Though she had never thought of him specifically in any of her girlish daydreams as a child, she thinks that he is everything she would have wanted in a man. Protective and strong, sharp and stubborn, but gentle too. Maybe he isn't hers in any substantial way, but he is hers in every way that matters._

_She leans forward and slides her fingers over his forehead, brushing back his hair. He looks more unkempt than she's ever seen him. His clothes are wrinkled and he is unshaven. A dusting of scruff has grown over his jaw. In the early haze of morning, the fine hairs look like shards of gold. She slowly drags a finger over that jaw curiously, and even though she has done this a hundred times by now, for some reason it feels like the first._

_Elara stares at him for another long moment, taking in his relaxed expression and even breathing, and then she leans down and presses her mouth against his in a very soft kiss. She lingers there for what feels like an age, an eternity made of dusky affection and stillness too tempestuous to break, and then…_

_Gloss raises a hand to her hair and smooths his fingers over the fine auburn strands, and Elara quietly pulls back._

_His eyes flutter open. The sight she makes, hovering over him in a pool of sun, is from a dream. And yet – he could never dream her up in such startling detail, could never imagine the vivid way the light gleams her hair into coppery strands or turns her eyes bluer than the cactus flowers that grow on the desert's edge. His imagination could never bring her to life with such poignant artistry._

_He stares at her through sleepy eyes as if he is witnessing some otherworldly sight that shatters through the heavens like a thousand of those wishful shooting stars, breathing with energy._

"_You came," he murmurs. His words rise up at the end, as if he is asking instead of saying. He recalls her anger from last night almost too well. In the light of day, he can't entirely blame her for it._

_Elara stares at him for a long moment, still hovering mere inches away. Her eyes are difficult to read; there is an air to them that he cannot place, at first. He doesn't move from his position at all, except to reach out and lay his hand gingerly over her hip. His fingers slide against the crevice of her thigh, holding her just barely as he purses his mouth and slowly says, "…I heard once that lovers never have to apologize."_

_Elara finds the words to be so random that she raises her eyebrows and leans back. Gloss is quick to continue, "I guess that's probably bullshit. If you do something wrong, you should take responsibility for it." She just stares at him with a confused frown, so Gloss pushes himself up and hurriedly tells her, "I'm sorry, Elara. I shouldn't have – shouldn't have gotten in the middle of your date last night. I didn't…have any right to do that."_

_He'll admit that it isn't easy saying those words. For one, he isn't sorry for getting in the middle of the date at all – what he's really sorry for is hurting her by doing so. And, to say that he doesn't have the right to be involved in her life in such a way…well, that isn't easy to voice either. To some degree it's true though. Elara Winston does not belong to him, and she never will._

_Elara studies him carefully for another drawn out moment, before she sighs and takes his hand in the both of hers. In an almost idle manner, she twists her fingers around his as she murmurs, "You have more of a right than anyone else."_

_He swings his head up to stare at her, and the edge of her mouth tips up into the first smile she's given him in what feels like ages. He breathes out and tightens his grasp of her hands. Then, in a moment of undisclosed affection, Gloss brings her hands up to his lips and kisses them._

"_I didn't think you'd come at all," he murmurs as he pulls away._

_She gives him a wry glance and then admits, "I missed you." Then, catching sight of the smile that's capturing his mouth, and quickly adds, "Even though you're stubborn and frustrating and you make me furious sometimes."_

_He chuckles. "Am I?" he wonders, even though he knows very well that he is. He thinks that's probably why he had been so drawn to her in the beginning – because she's all of those things too. Sometimes, when he's feeling sentimental enough for thoughts like these, he thinks they fit together with such precision that they are made for each other._

_Elara smiles, squeezing his hand. "I brought breakfast."_

_Gloss looks over at the takeout box that he hadn't given much thought to before, and leans over to open it. Inside is a large omelet complete with fried potatoes, toast, and several pistachio muffins. Gloss doesn't realize how hungry he is until he sees the spread. He turns to the woman at his side and murmurs, "You're incredible."_

_It's true. Elara doesn't seem to be expecting the compliment, though, because she doesn't look like she knows what to say in response. Gloss chuckles and saves her by handing her one of the plates and dividing the omelet into two pieces. As he divvies the potatoes up, she goes to stand up._

"_I bought coffee too," she tells him, going to collect the cups that are still sitting on the kitchen counter, forgotten until now._

_As she sits back down, Gloss looks at her softly. She doesn't acknowledge the way his eyes gleam gently at her, except to send him a quiet smile as she takes her plate and goes to lean against his side. He doesn't say anything either – only turns to send her a satisfied smile and to remark on how good the pistachio muffins are._

_And, as they sit together and eat breakfast, side by side on the couch, Elara turns to him and murmurs, "It is bullshit." He looks a little confused, until she explains, "Not having to say you're sorry? Where did you hear that?"_

_He laughs and shrugs, "Dunno. Somewhere."_

_Elara makes a disagreeable noise and shovels a fork of omelet into her mouth. As she swallows it, she looks over at him and proposes, "Let's always apologize if we do something wrong, okay?"_

_He pauses at the suggestion, raises an eyebrow at her, and drawls, "I'm basically perfect though…I very rarely do anything wrong." Elara gapes at him for a full two seconds before he laughs and surrenders, "Okay – it's a deal. Would you stop hitting me?"_

_Her playful shoving only gets worse though, and he just laughs harder._

* * *

They've been in the arena for what feels like an age now, even though it probably hasn't been a full week. Time drags in strange ways here, and Elara isn't entirely sure if she can trust it or not. In the past, the Gamemakers have altered the passage of time, lengthening the days or shortening the nights, and so whether or not the time in the arena truly reflects the real world is lost to them. It doesn't really matter, but Elara would still like to know how long she's been in here. How long Amelia has been watching the Games and waiting to see if her sister would fall.

She's been trying not to think about Amelia. The anxiety that she feels whenever her younger sister crosses her mind is almost staggering. Haymitch had told her that they'd try to get her out of District 5 before the end of the Games, but Elara isn't naïve to believe that this will be an easy task. Easier, perhaps, than breaking them out of the arena, but challenging nonetheless. Especially since he had also mentioned that the other Victors would also be rescued, if possible. With District 13's resources split several ways, Elara can only hope that they don't forget about Amelia. If something were to happen to her because of Elara's own idealistic desires, then she'd never forgive herself. Even a rebellion – even her freedom – is not worth the life of her sister. She has already lost her parents to the Capitol. If she were to lose Amelia as well, she doesn't know what she would do.

If she's being honest with herself, she's been at odds with her decision to join forces with Katniss for days now. The rebel plans had swept into her life like a whirlwind. She had jumped at the chance of breaking free from the grasp of President Snow and all that he has made her do over the last eight years. She had thought about Amelia, of course, and about all the other consequences that would befall her should she fail, but she hadn't had a whole lot of time to come to a final decision about what to do before the start of the Games. A few days isn't really enough time to weigh a rebellion against the other potential outcomes.

She wouldn't say that she regrets her decision, but she can't deny that she's extremely worried about what might happen should they fail. The worry has been eating her up for days now, putting thoughts into her head that are not helping her remain focused on the happenings around her. She can't afford to be caught off guard in the arena of all places, yet her mind spins with fears that she knows could very well come to life.

So many things could go wrong.

Sometimes, she wonders if she's asking for too much, being too selfish, wanting things that will always be beyond her reach. Ever since stepping into this arena, she's been caught between opposing desires like a marionette on a dozen strings. She's been pulled and tugged, back and forth, fighting the need to stay calm and to act normal with the others in her group – and the yearning that she feels to go off in search of Gloss and Cashmere.

She doesn't know where they are or why they haven't run into each other yet. A part of her is relieved for that, while still another is not. She is a confusing, jumbled mess of emotions and she's not sure she's doing a good job at hiding them. At least not to Finnick and Johanna, who know her a bit better than the others.

"Would you stop fidgeting?" Johanna drawls from off to the side. She's leaning against a tree, knee propped up as she watches Katniss and Wiress down in the water. The water seems to calm Wiress's frenzied nerves, which to Elara's sorrow have only worsened over the course of the last few days. She doesn't know Wiress all that well – District 3 tends to keep to itself, and so does Elara – but there's always been a subtle comradery between the Victors because of their shared interests and the similar way they were raised. It isn't pleasant to watch Wiress spiraling out of her mind like this.

Elara glances down at the sand that she's twisting between her fingers and shrugs wordlessly. The sight makes Johanna roll her eyes.

"Hey Finnick!" she calls a moment later. "Got any more of those mussels?"

Finnick waltzes over to them with a shit-eating grin and jokes, "I've got plenty of muscles, Jo. To which are you referring?"

Johanna stares at him for a long moment, then groans and mutters, "I almost wish I was back in to the jungle…"

Elara snorts out a laugh as Finnick snickers, looking rather pleased with himself. He tells them that he'll go and collect some, and disappears soon after to wade out into the water. As he goes, Mags ambles over to them and gingerly sits down, looking a bit worse for wear. The arena is not a good environment for any of them, but Mags especially is suffering with the rough quality of life here. They are young and strong, but her body is not what it once was and Elara can only imagine how painful it is to sleep on the hard ground every night.

She sends the older lady a smile in hopes of uplifting her spirits. It seems to work, a little. Mags reaches over to grasp Elara's hand, her lips pulling back into a wide grin. It doesn't truly reach her eyes, but Elara lets her pretend.

Truly, this is the strangest Hunger Games that Elara has ever been a part of. They have been loitering around for what seems like ages now, practically lounging in plain sight on the beach. No one has challenged their position here. They've hardly seen any signs of other tributes at all. It's been a while since any danger has befallen them, which is a bit concerning to Elara. The only reason the Gamemakers would let them have their respite is if they are having fun with the other tributes. And really, there is only one other group that would garner the Gamemakers' attention in such a way.

What have the Careers been up? What horrors have they witnessed, or battles have they undergone? What evils have the Gamemakers sent their way? Elara is almost reluctant to consider them, because the thoughts only make her more restless, yet she can't possible stop them from overpowering her mind at every hour. Even her dreams reflect the potential dangers that her friends are going through. She hasn't yet seen any sign of Gloss or Cashmere in the skies above, but that doesn't mean that they are safe – especially with Brutus and Enobaria.

Still, despite the clinging worries, Elara doesn't exactly have the luxury of only thinking about the siblings from District 1. Later that day, her own group runs into a bit of trouble that none of them are expecting.

It begins with the afternoon sun as it crests the sky, dipping into the cadences of late afternoon. Katniss decides to collect some water, and Finnick trails after her just in case they aren't as safe as they think they are. One can never be too careful in the arena. Elara and Mags sit together in the sand while Mags tries to teach her how to weave the stiff grasses that litter the arena into the baskets they've been using for meals and water. Elara isn't the move creative person alive, but under Mags's gentle eye, she isn't half bad. Beetee and Wiress are hunched together in the shade, the former idly twisting the spool of wire between his fingers, the latter mumbling to herself as she draws shapes in the sand. Johanna is sitting off to the side sharpening her axe, and Peeta is standing nearby leaning on his spear as he watches the line of the jungle in the distance, as if he's waiting for their peace to be disrupted.

And – it _is_ disrupted, but not quite in the manner anyone is anticipating.

A loud shriek suddenly sounds through the silence, altering everyone to some sort of danger. Their reactions are immediately as they all spring up, grasping their weapons and looking around to see where the sound had come from. Except no one can seem to find the source of it. No one on the beach, anyway.

Katniss is still in the middle of hammering the spile into the tree when the shriek blasts into existence. To everyone else, it is just a nameless sound that signifies terror and danger, but little else. But to Katniss, the sound is very familiar, and it utterly unsettles her as she drops what she's doing and turns to stare into the trees with wide eyes.

For a long moment, she doesn't move an inch, as if she's wondering whether she had imagined the sound. But then it comes again, and this time, it cries out for her in particular.

"Katniss!" the sound wails, high pitched and terrified, and Katniss doesn't even hesitate before running into the jungle without looking back.

"Prim!" she shouts, barging through the trees. "Prim!?"

Within seconds, she's grabbing her bow and fitting an arrow to the string, pulling it back as the sound of her sister cries out again. It makes her shake, her mind filling with images of torture. She can think of nothing but how the Capitol had managed to get their hands on such a sound. The only answer she can come up with at this moment is that they had taken Prim and recorded it themselves. Despite her best attempts, her fingers tremble on the bowstring.

There is no sign of her sister. No sign of anything but the huge black birds that are flocking to the treetops and blinking down at her. As one opens its mouth and another scream comes out, Katniss lifts her bow and skewers it with an arrow. It falls with a thud of the ground, cut off mid-shriek.

She isn't alone, though. The moment she skids to a stop in the center of a small clearing, Finnick nearly runs into her back.

"Katniss – slow down – " he pants, reaching forward to grab her arm. He looks unkempt and keeps glancing around, as if he's waiting for something to jump out at them. He's gripping his trident so hard that his knuckles are turning white.

Katniss refuses to listen to him when she hears another voice cut through the jungle.

Gale. He calls her name just as Prim had, and he sounds like he's in tremendous pain. Katniss's breath catches in her throat at the thought of the Capitol targeting him, too, and wonders for the briefest of moments who else they might have gotten to while she's been in the arena. There is no end to the horrors that the Capitol is able to inflict.

"It's Gale," she chokes, and rips her arm away from Finnick grasp. He just grabs her again though, tugging her forcefully back before she can run forward again.

"It's not Gale," he insists. "It's just a trick. The Gamemakers are trying to confuse you, Katniss. Don't fall for it."

But Katniss can't hear him. She shakes her head and says in a strained voice, "How did they get their voices? Who else did they get?"

Finnick doesn't have a chance to answer her before a woman's voice shouts his name, and all hope of reasoning is lost in the cadences of the voice that he loves so much.

"FINNICK!" Annie shouts. She sounds like she's in agony.

He instinctively steps forward, eyes cutting to the forest, and just barely stops himself from running deeper into the jungle. _Trick_ – he repeats the word over and over in his head. It's just a trick. A trick. It's hard not losing his sensibilities though.

He grabs Katniss's arm and drags her back the way they'd come. They're running so fast that they end up knocking straight into the forcefield. They're sent sprawling backwards right into the dirt, hitting the ground as hard as they hit the invisible barrier that's keeping them trapped. Meanwhile the birds follow, screeching out the screams of those familiar voices as the other Victors gather on the opposite side of the forcefield, trying to break it down. But it's no use – the barrier remains intact no matter how hard Peeta throws himself against it. Katniss and Finnick are trapped.

Mags looks extremely worried for Finnick, so Elara reaches forward to clasp her hand on the woman's bony shoulder. It does little to assuage the concern that flares through her body, though, and Elara ends up turning away from the scene after ten minutes of watching her friend's silent suffering.

She turns her gaze to the water that laps at the shore, and the cornucopia that gleams brightly in the sun beyond the waves. And she wonders, again, at how much longer she'll be able to take this fabricated hell and all the horrors that go with it.

Unfortunately for her, the horrors are only just beginning. For at this very moment, they are not as alone as they think they are.


	44. By day, it seems to propagate this hate

**Chapter Forty Four | By day, it seems to propagate this hate.**

"_And, with a marital scorn, with one hand beats_

_Cold death aside."_

_2.6, 160-161 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Intimacy is a strange creature to a Victor who is passed around like cattle to be branded, and Elara Winston has been branded by dozens of imaginary irons that are pressed to her skin to mark her in ways that is not so easy to ignore. She bears these marks in the form of injuries and wounds. She bears them as emotional scars too – nightmares that shatter what little peace she is able to find. And yet…sometimes, in rare moments colored by an intimacy that transcends physical limitations, a part of her is awoken from the branded stupor that haunts her wherever she turns, and she is lost to a rising tide of feeling that has absolutely no tainted undertones to it at all._

_She would never have known what passion even is if it hadn't been for Gloss. Being with him is like diving into a crystal clear lake. The water is warmed by a sun that shines merrily from above, casting its rays to every surface of the riverbed. When she plunges into it, it is like she is plunging into a world that exists only in the spaces between his body and hers, and it is clear and radiant and forgiving, and she lets herself get lost in every caressing wave because it is so easy to surrender to its warmth. And, even though she is scarred by moments too tumultuous for her thin shoulders to bear, she is somehow able to strip from those shoulders the weight of her nightmares whenever she is with him._

_Gloss makes her feel a poignant desire that shatters her and reconstructs her all at the same time._

_She is lost to the way his tongue flicks over her, diving against her core as she rolls her hips into his face. She is lost to the way he looks at her as he kneels over the edge of the couch, one leg hooked over his shoulder, the other propped up with his hand. His gaze is strewn with hapless desire just as her body is strewn over the cushions. His eyes thunder at her with every whimpering moan she gives him, and with every twist of her body, he seems utterly intent on devouring her._

_She does not feel scarred at all as she grasps his hair and throws her head back, hips bucking into his mouth with a breathless gasp. She is not a branded thing, tossed into a dozen prying nightmares, drowning in memories of hands that turn to claws. With him, she is a swan. She transforms before his eyes as if she is unfurling her wings. She is grace and beauty and Gloss is enchanted._

_He drags his lips and tongue and mouth over her and groans softly against her. His own desire is a steady throb of want that threatens to overmaster him, but the mere sight of her is enough to temper it down. He is not denying himself – not at all – he is merely waiting for her to lose herself completely. Waiting for her to forget everyone that have come between them since the last time he's mapped out her body and brought her the pleasure that she so often shies away from in every other circumstance._

_But she doesn't shy away from this. She doesn't turn from him or try to stop him. She doesn't need to. It is difficult to explain what it is between them, but the cornerstone of it is a concrete foundation of trust. That they have laid this cornerstone down throughout years of exploring this particular intimacy that brims over their bodies and marks them in ways that are so very different compared to the brands that Elara has experienced with all the others._

_She feels it so clearly that it is like a resounding chime that vibrates through her heart. It increases with every pass of his tongue until she is craning up and his name is a babbling chant on her lips, strewn with a desperate sort of chaos that rings with the intensity of her passion. Gloss hastens his pace upon hearing it, drags her closer to the edge of the couch to suck at her until she's a trembling mess, her legs tight around his shoulders. He waits until she comes down from the intense spin of her climax before he chuckles and extricates himself from her wayward limbs, shooting her a smirking look as he presses a kiss to her thigh._

_Elara just heaves out a sigh, feeling boneless and deeply satisfied, and watches him through half lidded eyes. He doesn't say a word as he climbs onto the couch and grasps her hips, pulling him on top of him. She moans when she feels the jut of his erection press against her and looks at him with bright eyes._

"_You're so incredibly amazing," she whispers to him with a laugh, and he smirks wider in that slightly arrogant way that tells her he already knows, thank you._

"_Let me feel you," he breathes, pressing his hands into the flesh of her rear and pulling her against his length. The warmth of her is so arousing that he can't think of anything but being inside her._

_She moans as they come together, taking him deeply. He grasps her firmly, loving the sight of her sitting in his lap and hovering over him. His forehead comes to rest between her breasts and he breathes deeply around the lust that spins him for a loop. His breath shatters when she starts to move, hips rocking into him._

_He groans into her skin and holds her tightly, arms straining, chest heaving, until –_

"_Oh my God – " a familiar voice suddenly says from the door, and splutters, "Christ…I didn't need to see that…"_

_Elara gasps and throws herself off of him, and Gloss groans with frustration as his head tips back to rest against the edge of the couch._

_He growls, "What the hell do you want, Cashmere?"_

_He closes his eyes in aggravation as Elara quickly grabs her shirt from the floor and slips it on. Her face is so red that she looks like a tomato. Gloss might have found it amusing, but as it is, he is far too annoyed at the interruption. His arousal still thuds through him, but he just grits his teeth and grabs a pillow, shoving it into his lap before turning around to glower at his sister._

_Cashmere is shielding her eyes, back turned towards them, when she dryly responds, "I wanted to see if you two wanted to go out to lunch. I didn't realize you'd be rutting each other like wild animals." Then, shaking her head, she mutters, "I will never get that image out of my head…"_

_Gloss snorts and grouses, "You should've called first."_

_Cashmere rolls her eyes. "You wouldn't have answered it anyway. You're clearly too…preoccupied." The generous heaping of disgust in her voice makes Elara groan in embarrassment, and Cashmere cautiously glances at her before adding, "I don't blame you, Elara. My brother has a one-track mind."_

_With a scoff, Gloss mutters, "That's not true." The look Elara shoots him at that makes him roll his eyes because he knows it's a halfhearted argument. When it comes to her, he definitely does have a one-track mind._

_After an awkward pause, Cashmere loudly states, "Well! This made me lose my appetite anyway, so I'll be taking my leave now."_

_Her brother mumbles, "Finally," but Cashmere ignores him when she says, "Elara, we should have breakfast sometime before you leave for District 5." Then, pausing again, she wrinkles her nose distastefully and adds, "Preferably without my brother."_

_Gloss rolls his eyes, but apparently decides that getting into an argument with his sister isn't worth it and doesn't respond. Cashmere can't get out of the apartment fast enough – she nearly slams the door shut in her haste to extricate herself from the awkwardness. Unfortunately, Elara isn't as lucky._

_Gloss turns to look at her, only to find that she's curled up on the couch, blushing bright red and fanning herself. It makes the edge of his mouth turn up in amusement, which she does not appreciate. She throws a nearby pillow at him and demands, "Don't say a word."_

_He just smirks widely and not only throws the pillow she had hit him with off of the couch, but also the one that's been in his lap. Without it, he stretches out and puts his hands behind his head, the image of confident ease as he blinks at her. If possible, the sight he makes has her blushing even harder._

"_You okay over there?" he asks, voice full of mirth._

_She glowers at him and gets up, rolling her eyes as she steps past him. At the last moment though, he hooks his arm around her waist and drags her back into his lap. She lets out a surprised noise that has him chuckling, and he immediately quips, "You can't leave me hanging like this, Elara. That's cruel."_

_She scoffs, trying to get out of his grasp and failing utterly. "You've got hands, don't you?" she asks imperiously, to which his mouth drops open and a challenging look blazes through his eyes. She does have to admit that a part of her is extremely excited to see it there._

"_I've got a temptress in my lap and she's telling me to pleasure myself?" he growls playfully, leaning forward to press biting kisses over her neck. He sends her an edged look and lowly murmurs, "Take me, Elara."_

_Shivers race down her spine at the low plea. She exhales hard and digs her nails into his broad shoulders, lips parted as desire once more bolsters through her. Sometimes, she finds herself so shocked at the intensity of what she feels for him that it blows her over._

"_Take me," he repeats, hands fisted in the loose shirt she had thrown back on. "Take all of me," he groans, and heaves her as close as he can. Elara's breath is a shallow mess and her eyes are clear reflections of her desire for him. When she moans against his lips and reaches out to curl her fingers around his length, he knows she isn't going anywhere._

_She takes him, as much of him as he is willing to give, and somehow they manage to fall back into each other with the same burning passion that they had felt before. And the spaces between these moments don't seem to matter, because –_

_They always feel it, brimming to the surface between them like some gravitational force that drags them together again and again and again._

* * *

Across the beach, hidden in the tree line of the jungle's cool embrace, the Careers finally finish their trek back to the water. They've been walking all day, doing their best to sidestep the dangers of the jungle during their journey. For some reason, they've been very lucky in that they've come through it relatively unscathed. The Gamemakers must be too interested in their new plans to get in their way by sending mutts or other dangers after them.

The four of them reach the end of the jungle, but remain hidden in the canopy of leaves. They take a moment to study the beach. Two of them are strategizing their attack plan; the other two are just trying to keep their worry at bay. Neither Gloss nor Cashmere could have denied taking part in this plan. Their act of questioning it would have made them targets. Gloss thinks that him and Cashmere could probably take Brutus and Enobaria on without too much of a problem, but the District 2 Victors are perhaps even better trained than they are, and it would be a risk. A risk that neither of them are willing to take – for now.

"What's going on over there?" Brutus wonders, narrowing his eyes as he glances through the jungle's branches to view the scene on the other end of the beach. The others turn to see what he's referring to.

From their vantage point, they can only see the figures of a few of the Victors. Gloss thinks he recognizes Johanna and Mags, then identifies Beetee and Wiress nearby. They are all looking into the jungle with expressions of horror. But – he focuses most of his attention on Elara Winston, who he would recognize anywhere. She's the only one turned away from whatever is happening in the jungle. Arms crossed, she pensively studies the water, making it fairly obvious that though there is some sort of danger involved in this scenario, it is not the type of danger that is life-threatening.

Brutus seems to think so, too.

"We couldn't have picked a better time to set this plan into action," he crows gleefully, hefting his spear up with a deadly smirk. Beside him, Enobaria snorts in agreement.

"They're distracted. It's perfect. Let's not waste any more time," she says, stepping forward towards the beach.

Gloss and Cashmere share a look and follow, stalking after them and ensuring that they're practically right on their heels. The moment Brutus and Enobaria start running, Gloss and Cashmere run even faster, quickly overtaking them as they raise their weapons.

But – attacking their friends is not what they are planning. Gloss has never considered himself to be much of the double-agent type, but he certainly falls back upon that role now.

The Careers aren't quiet. Brutus and Enobaria charge forward with loud war cries, brandishing their weapons in front of them and taking the other Victors quite by surprise. The closer Gloss gets to the scene, the most he realizes what's happening. It's been days since the start of the Games, and by now, the strange invisible barriers that occasionally spring up in the jungle have become at least somewhat clear, in that they are ways of keeping that section of the jungle restricted – trapping whatever, or whoever, is inside of it at the time. It seems that there are two Victors currently trapped in the barrier. Two of the Victors that can actually fight.

As it is, only Johanna and Peeta can really fight out of the group gathered on the beach. Gloss wishes he'd had more time to teach Elara how to defend herself – wishes he'd have thought of this years ago, when they'd had all the time in the world. He knows that she wouldn't stand a chance against either of the District 2 Victors. And – to be perfectly frank, Peeta's chances are pretty low as well. Besides Johanna, Finnick and Katniss are the real fighters of this group, and they are currently out of commission.

If the strategic thoughts that barrel through him as he runs makes him at all worried, Gloss does a superb job of filtering them out and hiding his fear. Cashmere and him have a plan of their own, after all.

"Get behind me!" Johanna shrieks, grabbing Beetee by the arm and literally throwing him into the jungle. She lifts her axe in front of her and faces them with dark, expressive eyes. Elara stumbles back too, and though she's gripping two short blades in her hands, she's trembling. He doesn't know if it's because she's merely afraid of the Career's sudden attack, or if she's wary of his presence there. He doesn't have time to catch her eye and reassure her, though. He doesn't have any time at all.

Enobaria seems to have targeted Johanna, who is closest to her. She throws himself at her with a lunge, hefting her spear and attempting to catch her with it. Johanna sidesteps though, and slashes her axe at Enobaria's face with one quick movement. Enobaria barely manages to lift her spear and block it with the shaft. She knocks the axe away from her head with a grin, and the two of them begin to circle each other.

It isn't a clean fight by any stretch of the imagination. There's too much confusion – too many players all spread out on the beach together. With Enobaria fighting Johanna, Brutus goes for Peeta, swords slashing at the poor boy, who really doesn't have any prior training in weapons. Cashmere takes it upon herself to storm over to them, plant her hand directly in the center of Peeta's chest, and shove him backwards with one powerful move. He goes toppling over with a surprised exclamation, but unlike what he expects, Cashmere and Brutus don't immediately come after him.

Instead, strangely enough, Cashmere turns to face Brutus with a blank but resolute expression, her back to Peeta as she falls into a protective stance. Brutus is shocked by this – though his eyes soon glint with aggravated betrayal as Cashmere's actions become clear.

"You fucking bitch," he hisses, and lifts his arm to strike her down. Cashmere is ready though. She may not be from the same regimented, disciplined district that Brutus is from, but she's been raised learning how to fight. She can certainly hold her own.

She blocks Brutus's slash with her own sword, and pushes him back a few steps in the process. Her feet dig into the sand, but she doesn't let him gain the upper hand. She throws all of her strength into it, and is relieved when her brother strides into the fray to assist her.

The way he grabs Brutus's arm, drags it back, and breaks the locked swords is admirable, for he does it so easily that it looks effortless, even though Cashmere knows it isn't. Brutus is just as hulking as Gloss, and he's strong and well trained. He's a formidable opponent. But – he seems to have forgotten that Cashmere and Gloss tend to be close by regardless of where they are, and he has rather underestimated the combined effects of the sibling duo.

Using the momentum that he's got on the District 2 Victor, Gloss slams Brutus into the sand. His hand moves to clench itself around his throat, squeezing tightly as he kneels beside his prone figure. Cashmere steps forward, twirling a knife in her hands, and is about to land it into Brutus's chest when Enobaria suddenly yells, "FUCKING TRAITORS!" and breaks from her fight with Johanna to save her district partner.

The pandemonium of the recent events on the beach – the sudden arrival of the Career pack, and then the simultaneous confusion when the pack had split up and betrayed one another – threatens to make the entire scene a macabre one at best. Enobaria cannot be stopped. She is furious, and so is Brutus as he thrashes in Gloss's grip. If Gloss releases him to defend himself from Enobaria's oncoming form, he'll be facing two irate Careers instead of one. If he does nothing, then Cashmere will get the brunt of Enobaria's vengeance. Strangely enough, Gloss ends up not having to make a decision at all.

Before Enobaria can reach them, Peeta steps in and catches her mid-charge. There's a grunt of exertion as the boy throws her backwards with one powerful lurch of muscle, toppling the woman into the sand and buying them some time. Gloss glances over at his sister, who purses her lips, grips her knife, and plunges it into Brutus's chest emotionlessly.

The imposing, muscular Career doesn't look quite as fearsome now as he gasps and thrashes in pain, bleeding out in the sand. It takes a few moments, but soon he doesn't move at all, and his eyes just stare sightlessly into the sky as a canon tears through the silence.

Enobaria is so pissed off that she can barely walk straight.

She's so angry that, when she grabs Elara's motionless figure and cages her against her chest and her serrated knife, Gloss doesn't know how he misses the action.

For the first time since this whole fiasco started, Gloss allows himself to really look at Elara. She's looking back at him with eyes that are just wide enough to give her fear away, but narrowed in such a manner as to indicate that she's being stubborn about showing it too freely. He feels a blossoming of warmth in his chest at the thought of that stubborn woman, obstinate even now. The feeling of warmth doesn't last very long though, before it turns to cold fear.

Enobaria pulls the blade closer to her throat and snarls, "I'm gonna fucking kill you traitors – but first I'm gonna kill your girl and make you suffer, you fucking bastard."

Gloss stands up immediately, with Cashmere not far behind. Everyone lingers where they are, unsure if they should make a move when Enobaria is grappling with Elara so ruthlessly. Even Elara herself stands perfectly still, eyes blazing as she stares at Gloss, like she fully believes that these are her final moments. The thought makes Gloss's hands clench at his sides. He feels powerless and insignificant. He has no idea what to do.

Enobaria drags the knife ever closer – so close that a line of red appears at Elara's throat. Droplets of blood seep from her skin like tears, just barely coloring the silver blade. An insurmountable fury catches hold of Gloss at the sight. He shakes with it, his gaze turning thunderous as he turns his eyes to lock with Enobaria's. The District 2 Victor looks utterly gleeful at the sight of Gloss's reaction to the latest development.

Her glee lasts about as long as the cocktail of fear that blasts through Gloss. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, an arrow is lurching through the space between their figures and the jungle's edge. It catches Enobaria in the shoulder, and it is so unexpected that the woman immediately loosens her grip as pain flares through her. Elara feels the blade loosen, and even though she knows that she isn't the most capable fighter in existence, neither is she about to let Enobaria take her life from her.

She may not be able to throw knives or wield a sword the way Gloss can, but he has taught her a few things over the years that she isn't so deficient at, and the way she immediately pulls Enobaria's arm away from her neck while sweeping her leg under hers is a move that she is fairly good at, by now.

Gloss has only spent the last eight years hammering it into her psyche, hoping that it will help her if she's ever in a situation with a client that requires her to defend herself. The few self-defense moves she knows is a paltry example of fighting, and perhaps it would not have worked at all had Enobaria not already been distracted by the arrow sticking out of her shoulder. But, as it is, the woman is not prepared for the move at all, and goes tumbling down into the sand with another grunt – this time more painful than the last as her wounded shoulder hits the earth first.

Elara is quick to step away from her, just as Enobaria is quick to regain her footing only a moment later. Elara flies forward. Cashmere catches her by the arm and drags her to her side, knuckles starch white as if she thinks that the woman will disappear on her. The entire thing lasts only a few seconds, but Enobaria knows when she's been beat and she doesn't linger to wait for her death. Before anyone can stop her, she pushes herself up and turns to run into the nearby tree line.

The contemptuous look she sends Gloss makes Elara's skin crawl, but the woman disappears before anyone can do anything about it. Not even Katniss, who has turned her bow to other targets.

The forcefield had come down sometime during the fight, and though Finnick and Katniss look a bit worse for wear, they are both battle-ready nonetheless, each gripping their weapons with tight fingers. Only one of them looks truly fearsome though, and that is no doubt due to the fact that there are still two Careers on the beach with them.

Elara steps in front of Cashmere and reaches for Gloss, who doesn't waste any time in appearing at her side. He takes no notice of Katniss or the arrow she's currently training on him. He's got eyes only for the thin cut on Elara's pale neck.

With pursed lips, he lifts his eyes to hers but says nothing on the matter. There is little to say. He's relieved that she had made it out of this alive, especially when Brutus had seemed so prepared to kill her. And – that move she had pulled? Well, he can't deny that he's a little proud of her for that.

There's no time to voice his pride though. Time is ever limited around here.

"Why is no one attacking them?" Katniss demands fiercely. The question is understandable. Gloss and Cashmere don't belong with their group. They are Careers, and even though they had just basically saved them from Brutus and Enobaria, they are still the stereotypical enemies to all the other tributes. It's just that – this year, all the stereotypes have been turned upside down.

"They just saved our lives," Finnick hedges, glancing at Gloss and his sister with a discerning eye. He's aware that they know of the plan, and he's also aware that Gloss would do anything within his power to keep Elara alive. Cashmere goes where her brother goes. That's always been how it's been, for as long as Finnick can recall. Katniss hasn't been a Victor for as long as he has though. She doesn't know Gloss or Cashmere like the older Victors do, and she doesn't know that there is a larger plan in the works that many of the Victors are privy to.

She doesn't lower her weapon.

Elara swallows tightly and says in a quiet voice, "Please, Katniss."

The humble plea doesn't appear to have much of an effect on the Girl on Fire, but it does have one on her district partner. Peeta cautiously steps forward and slowly says, "…They did save us. We would've been cut down if they hadn't turned on Brutus and Enobaria."

He casts a glance at Brutus's lifeless body, which is still bleeding out in the sand not far away. The hovercraft hasn't had a chance to collect him yet, with them still lingering by his corpse. The sight is a macabre one, but it hammers down the truth of Peeta's words in a very effective way. Katniss glances at the prone form of the District 2 Career as well, though she still keeps her bow drawn taut.

"Why?" Katniss demands, her gaze cutting back into Gloss's. She flickers her attention between him and his sister. They stand there behind Elara with stoic expressions on their faces, despite the fact that they are still in danger. Katniss's skills with the bow are not to be underestimated.

It is Cashmere who responds. She is more collected than her brother, and her voice is set in calm tones when she says, "Elara is our friend. We weren't just going to stand by and watch her get killed. Besides, we only joined up with the Careers because it was expected of us. We've been waiting to pick them off for you since the start of the Games."

The words make Katniss's eyes narrow. "…For us? What do you mean?"

Cashmere opens her mouth to respond, but it is Gloss who impatiently says, "Think of it as a peace offering, Everdeen."

Elara glances back at him and he raises an eyebrow at her. She sighs.

Peeta carefully wonders, "Who's to say that you won't turn on us next, just like you did to Brutus and Enobaria?"

To everyone's surprise, Johanna rolls her eyes and snaps, "Can we continue this conversation somewhere else? There _are_ other tributes in this damned place that wouldn't hesitate to come after us, you know."

She exchanges a glance with Elara and gives her an imperceptible nod. If Elara is surprised at Johanna's show of loyalty or her effort to stop the situation from delving into deadlier territories, Elara doesn't show it. She merely grasps Gloss's hand and spears Katniss with a look.

"Remember what we talked about before, Katniss?" she asks, much to everyone else's confusion. Katniss's expression doesn't change at the reminder, but her eyes do flicker a bit with recognition.

Their conversation in the Training Center had been somewhat eye-opening for the Girl on Fire, who does not know Gloss or Cashmere in the way that Elara does. But – Elara isn't referring to the words that were exchanged regarding their forced lifestyles. She's talking about the system. The masks that they wear to protect themselves from the Capitol. The fact that they are not bad people; just people trying to hold onto the last remnants of their humanity.

Katniss frowns. "…I remember. But we're in the arena now. Only one of us will make it out of here alive."

She glances over at Peeta wordlessly. She doesn't need to say a single thing. It's fairly obvious, to Elara at least, that Katniss wants Peeta to be the one who survives. She understands. The love that Katniss feels for him is something that she feels as well, for the man at her side. She would do anything to keep Gloss safe, even if it meant that she herself has to die.

But – that is a thought for another time. For now…

"This is a Quarter Quell," Finnick cuts in, leaning against his trident with a contemplative look on his face. He looks over at Elara, then at Gloss, and murmurs, "The rules are different this time around."

It is Mags who is the unspoken voice of reason, though. She lifts a hand to lay it on Katniss's shoulder. The Girl on Fire looks over at the older woman, who softly pleads with her in her quiet way. Not even Katniss is immune to such a look. Mags has a way of getting what she wants, without even verbally asking for it.

With a pursed sigh, Katniss finally lowers her bow and mutters, "If anything happens, I won't hesitate to kill either of you." She casts a disparaging look at the District 1 Victors, but the tension that it would have incurred drops away as she slides her arrow back into her quiver.

This loyalty, this friendship that undercuts the group, though in some ways skewed and misunderstood, is why Katniss had wanted to go at it alone. She had planned from the very beginning to take Peeta and abandon the others. She doesn't want to kill anyone. She's never wanted to. But now, with so many other tributes in their group, doing so will be even harder. Not just because she is reluctant to kill in general, but because she feels something for these people. Even Gloss, who is the typical Career – ruthless, merciless. She's seen the way he looks at Elara. The love in his gaze when he's with her, and the protective stance he gets whenever he's around his sister. Those are not emotions that a soulless man would have.

Still. If they threaten her or Peeta in any way…

Well, it is the Hunger Games, after all, and Katniss Everdeen is a fighter.


	45. This love is a curse and prayer in one

**Chapter Forty Five | This love is a curse and prayer in one;**

"_The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,_

_Check'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light;_

_And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels_

_From forth day's part and Titan's fiery wheels."_

_2.3, 1-4 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_During the Games season, it's much more difficult to see Gloss. They are together in the same building, just a few floors away, but the nature of their clandestine affair keeps them from seeing each other as often as they'd like to. There is no time for lavish evenings or drawn out mornings. They do not have the luxury of their own apartments for which to paint out the backdrop of their intimacy. Instead, they are stuck with the suites that they share with the other escorts and stylists, and they have to be extra careful to keep their business private._

_Maintenance closets and rooftops; late night kisses snuck into the walls of their bedrooms. These are the things they are left with while their tributes fight for their lives in the arena. It does not make for the most pleasant of encounters. The Games bring up memories that they try their best to suppress, but they do not always succeed. Elara doesn't like sneaking around, either. Sometimes she gets tired of it. Sometimes, all she wants to do is to lounge in bed with Gloss and not care if someone knows that she is not in her own room._

"_Mmm…you know I should go back soon," she murmurs as his lips burn a trail of fire over her body. It's five o'clock in the morning. Gloss had woken up from a nightmare that had left him reeling for all of ten seconds before Elara gently brought him back to earth, turning the lamp on and drawing him against her until his breathing had shallowed out. She knows she won't get more sleep tonight. Even though it is too early to head to the public viewing room on the top floor, it would be better to go back to the District 5 suite before anyone wakes up and realizes that she isn't there._

_But Gloss just grumbles tiredly and pulls her flush against him, burying his face into the pillow and drawing her into the crux of his body. "Stay," is all he says, arm flexing around her._

_She can't deny that the warmth of his body is a temptation that she has difficulty saying no to. Neither can she deny that she should get going before Ignatius wakes up. He has a tendency of starting his day earlier than the rest of the stylists because he likes to make this strange smoothie concoction in the mornings before breakfast, which he's obsessed with because apparently it makes his skin glow._

_Elara hooks her hand around his bicep and wrangles herself out of his arms. Or, at least, she tries to. Gloss doesn't let her get very far before he's rolling on top of her and demanding, "Stay," in that sleepy voice she finds so irresistible, because it's low and gruff and masculine._

_She gives him a look that he doesn't see, because his face is tucked against her neck, and whines, "Gloss, I should go."_

_He just shakes his head and mumbles, "Stay," again, as if it is the only word he knows._

_She sighs. "You're so frustrating sometimes."_

_He chuckles a bit, a muffled sound that verge on sinful, and hums, "It's still early…"_

_It is early, but they can't be too careful. They've had a few close calls over the last few years, nearly getting caught by one of the other occupants of the floor. Once, Harley had walked into the kitchen of the District 5 suite mid-yawn, and the only reason he missed the sight of Gloss disappearing through the door was because his head had been tipped back._

_Still…his body is a warm furnace against hers through the soft shirt he's wearing, and Elara fists her hands into the fabric of it because she doesn't really want to leave either. Not truly. Being with him in any capacity is like glimpsing some far off sliver of peace that she can just barely graze the surface of before it disappears beneath the dusky clouds of their nightmares._

_She doesn't try to move again, and Gloss contentedly nuzzles into her as if he is a bear hibernating through the chill of winter, laying his tired body to sleep. And he does fall asleep again, not long after that. Elara listens to his breath even out, gently threading her fingers through his hair and enjoying the press of his weight above her. It is like a blanket of protection – a safety that, in this moment, is limitless and encompassing._

_Sleep doesn't come to her, though. She is happy enough to lay with him like this. When she closes her eyes and presses her cheek against his hair, she could almost imagine what sort of life they could have together, if they were allowed such a freedom. It's dangerous having those thoughts, but Elara can't help but let her mind wander into an imaginary world full of her and him and none of the consuming boundaries laid in place by their forced lifestyles._

_They could be together like this every night, curled up like this. They wouldn't have to sneak around or wear their pretenses like heavy cloaks, pretending to be people that they aren't. They would never have to part ways again. Never have to say goodbye._

_She lets out a rattled breath at the thought, fingers drifting down his broad shoulders and over his spine. She presses wayward circles against his back; idle movements that she is barely cognizant of. The warmth that permeates through his shirt sinks into her fingertips and makes her feel grounded in a way that is difficult to describe. It's like her soul unfurls and folds into his; earthbound stars buried together somewhere in the middle of some unmarked land, where no one can touch them._

"…_What are you thinking about?" he asks, much to her surprise. Elara's fingers still in their lazy movements, and she wonders at how long he has been awake or if he had even gone to sleep after all._

_She turns her head towards his, chin meeting his forehead, and flattens her palm against his back as she drags it over him. The sigh he lets out at her gentle touch is probably one of the most peaceful sounds she has ever heard._

"_I don't know," she whispers into the dim light. "You, I suppose."_

_Gloss makes an amused noise and mumbles, "Naturally."_

_She chuckles, and against his forehead, she breathes, "I'm thinking about how I never want to leave this bed."_

_He doesn't answer for a long moment. He doesn't really need to. The silence between them is comfortable. It stretches out with all the vastness of space, peppered by stray pinpricks of faded stars falling from their placements in the heavens._

_And then…_

"_Then don't," he murmurs, his voice nothing more than the lightest touch of sound, muffled just so against her skin. He inhales sleepily and hums, "Let's never leave."_

_It's a pretty set of words – wonderfully idealistic. She is filled with such a simple sort of satisfaction when she hears them. Such an uncomplicated ease._

_She smiles and closes her eyes, and she pretends that they are somewhere else, in some other universe – breaching the corners of some other sky – where such a dream could exist. But…it can't exist, not here. Not now._

_When she leaves him an hour later, Gloss has fallen back asleep and he doesn't try to stop her. Perhaps it is better that way._

* * *

Everything is different with the two Careers around. The moment the tension of the group dissipates, Gloss grabs Elara's hand and pulls her towards the jungle. His hold is tight and relentless, but she soon discovers that it is worth it. Once the jungle leaves hide them from the others, Gloss presses her against a tree and ducks down to kiss her.

Elara lets out a sharp breath but doesn't try to stop him despite her better judgement. After days of worrying after him, she's had enough of it. Her hands slide up the familiar planes of his chest, head tipping back as she takes his kiss and returns it feverishly. He sinks into her with a low exhale that sounds heavy and burdened, and Elara moves to wrap her arms around his neck in hopes of lessening some of those burdens.

"You're injured," she murmurs once the kiss breaks. Gloss raises an eyebrow at her, confused until she drags her thumb beneath the cut that mars his cheek.

He scoffs, "I'm fine." Then, stepping back to look her over, he asks, "You seem alright…"

Elara sends him an edged glance and sarcastically says, "Don't sound so surprised."

Gloss just chuckles, stares at her for a long moment, and then drags her into his arms again. This time, he doesn't kiss her – he just merely sinks against her and breathes, "Guess the secret's out."

Elara hums, considering his words. The secret of their relationship is indeed out. If the sight of that kiss hadn't been enough to prove it, Elara's own hints during the interviews with Caesar had been a very large clue all on its own. She tells herself that it doesn't matter – that they'll be safe in District 13 soon anyhow, and the Capitol's knowledge of the truth of their connection means nothing. She holds him tighter anyway, because as always, her logic and her feelings rise up in battle, warring constantly inside her head.

Elara pulls back after a few minutes. "We should go back, Gloss," she says, glancing to where their companions are. They can just about see them through the trees, being close enough to the beach but far enough away for a sliver of privacy. They shouldn't separate from the group for too long though, especially with Cashmere there by herself…

Gloss knows that. He sighs and nods, gesturing for her to walk to the beach. She takes one step forward, then turns back to him. The way she grabs his shoulders and drags him into another kiss is brash and sudden, but Gloss doesn't berate her for stalling. He merely chuckles and kisses her back, looping an arm around her waist and heaving her against him with the very same strength that has left her breathless so many times before.

He nips almost playfully at her lower lip before pulling back. The smirk he sends her is just boyish enough to counteract his recent return to his Career role. The ground is suddenly even between them again, in ways that it hasn't been since they've entered this place, and she can see him for the man she knows him to be. The man she's fallen for. The thought calms her and bolsters her all at once, and she presses a lingering kiss to his jaw before pulling back fully.

"Your sister shouldn't be left to fend for herself. Katniss is a force to be reckoned with," she tells him, stepping backwards towards the beach as she quips an amused smile his way.

Gloss merely scoffs and mutters, "If it was up to her, I'd have an arrow in my heart right now." Then, pursing his mouth at her, he grumbles, "What did I do to deserve so many iron-willed women in my life? It's tiring."

Elara laughs at this and pulls him along with her to the jungle's edge.

"I don't think you really mind," she breezily responds, sending him a knowing look. And Gloss – well, he doesn't outwardly respond, but the glowering expression he gives her doesn't look as genuine as he tries to make it seem.

The moment they step back onto the beach, Johanna makes a disgusted sound and Finnick winks at them. That their friends obviously know what they'd just been up to isn't very surprising: they weren't that far away, after all. Still, Elara feels herself blush just a little bit. Not at the thought of her friends being privy to their moment, but at the thought of the whole of Panem bearing witness to it. Surely, a romantic moment of that caliber wouldn't be overlooked or ignored. The city and all of its witless citizens must be in an uproar. The Hunger Games rarely features romance, and anything that makes the Games more interesting is worthwhile to the Capitol.

The group decides to move camp a bit, so everyone gathers their few belongings and starts walking along the edge of the jungle. With the addition of their two newest allies, the group is large enough that they don't worry overmuch about being ambushed by stray tributes. It's funny, how having Gloss and Cashmere there changes everything so thoroughly. How incredibly safe Elara feels with them nearby. She sticks close to them both as they walk in the middle of the group. Katniss seems dead set on taking the rear, as if she's seconds away from drawing an arrow on them should they prove to have false loyalties. Knowing her, Elara wouldn't be surprised if she already has an arrow drawn, but she doesn't look back to see. Instead she tangles her fingers with Gloss and grasps his hand tightly, far too swept up in the thought that he is actually here, by her side, and not lost in the jungle somewhere.

Everything had happened so quickly. The Career attack, the way the District 1 siblings had turned on Brutus and Enobaria so effortlessly, the manner in which they had joined the group…her head is still spinning with the recent events, so much so that she can only hold onto him and hope that she hadn't just made it all up in her head.

She's been worried about him and Cashmere for days now. To know that he is safe and unhurt is incredibly relieving, but she almost feels as though it's too good to be true. Too easy. Nothing is ever this simple, and she's worried again for a different reason now: that the group will ultimately reject their latest additions.

If that happens, that what will become of them? Will they make it to District 13, or will they die in this arena? Or worse – end up in the Capitol, where safety is an illusion for the softhearted? She holds Gloss tighter and tries to push back those worries, but it isn't very easy to do when danger seems to close in on them from all sides.

Johanna leads them to a small area where they decide to bunker down again, but none of them get too comfortable. The latest situation with both the jabberjays and the Career attack has left them wary and tense, and even as they sit down to rest, none of them feel that protected. They are in plain sight on the beach, but venturing back into the jungle seems like a death wish, even with a group their size.

Katniss takes a seat near Peeta while Finnick and Mags go to the water's edge and let the waves lap at their ankles. They speak to each other in their silent language, hands flying, lips moving soundlessly. Elara watches them for a moment before Cashmere pulls her around to face her and studies her closely as if she's inspecting her.

"…You look alright. I'm a little surprised," Cashmere says bluntly, and Elara rolls her eyes.

"I'm not helpless, thank you very much," she grumbles, though the insistent words barely seem to do any good. Cashmere hums dryly and crosses her arms, glancing over at her brother, who idles beside them. His attention is drawn to the rest of the group, his eyes almost wary as they drift from Finnick to Johanna to Katniss. He barely casts Beetee and Wiress a second glance. His focus flickers to the Girl on Fire more than anyone else, as if he's wondering how long it will take before she decides to get rid of him.

Elara wonders that as well. She glances at Katniss subtly, but the girl is talking to Peeta in quiet tones and hardly seems to notice. Elara isn't convinced though. Katniss has the mind of a hunter; she notices everything.

Cashmere sighs and sits down in the sand. She pats the spot beside her and Elara lowers herself as well. The fabricated world around them seems almost too calm, too peaceful. Perhaps the recent dangers they had just experienced has curbed the Capitol's need for action, at least for the moment. She certainly hopes so.

"Should we get caught up? Spill our guts on the recent events?" Cashmere wonders, and Elara spears her with an unimpressed look.

"That's very funny," she mutters, referring to Cashmere's less than stellar turn of phrase. It would be far too easy to spill their guts in a more literal sense. The arena is not to be taken lightly.

Gloss rolls his eyes at his sister and sits down next to Elara, stretching his legs out over the sand. His body is just as tense as ever though, despite the apparent relaxation of his stance. He isn't about to let his guard down even now.

He leans into her just so, barely touching her but close enough to make it obvious that he'd like to. She doesn't touch him either – just sends him a quiet look that speaks to him in ways that words alone would never achieve, and the corner of his mouth edges up in the faintest smile.

Cashmere sighs, "Enobaria must be furious. I wonder how long it'll take for her to recuperate and come after us again."

Gloss scoffs, "She wouldn't dare attack a group this big. It would be throwing her life away and she knows it."

Elara wrings her fingers together and shakes her head, "If she does attack, it'll be when we least expect it."

The District 2 Victor is a strategist. Elara doesn't know Enobaria all that well, but she's been around the woman for years now. Long enough to understand how her mind works, at the very least. She's prideful and arrogant, and today her pride has taken a beating. She won't forgive them for it, and she surely won't stand idly by and let them steal her victory from her. She isn't stupid, though. Gloss is right: Enobaria won't attack them head on. She'll wait for the right moment, until they're split up or facing down a danger that takes their attention off of her. She'll ensure that her strike will be as meaningful as possible, but Elara has little doubt that she _will_ strike. The question is, when?

Gloss glances at her face but doesn't respond. He turns his attention to the tree line along the beach, scanning it as if he expects to see Enobaria come tumbling out of its hidden depths. The Victor surely hadn't gone far. She'd want to keep an eye on them and make sure that she doesn't lose them. Any attempt on getting revenge is hinged on knowing where they are and what they're doing.

He makes no mention of this, but he doesn't have to. From the solemn expressions on everyone's faces, they are most likely already thinking the same thing.

"Hey Finnick!" Johanna suddenly calls, capturing the District 4 Victor's attention. He turns around and she yells, "How about some dinner?"

Finnick breaks out into an amused smile. "I'll teach you how to fish. Nothing's free, you know."

Johanna grumbles and heaves herself up, but she doesn't complain as she trudges to the edge of the water where Finnick and Mags are waiting. As the three of them start hunting for mussels, Elara sighs. She's frankly sick of seafood. She'd do anything for some steak and mashed potatoes right about now.

Later on, they sit down for a haphazard meal of raw mussels. It's a tense experience, eating together. With dinner spread out before them in the little woven baskets Mags has been constantly weaving from sea grass, they're forced into a closer comradery than before, when they were spread out on the beach. Of course, the term 'comradery' is somewhat lacking, for the atmosphere is thick and wary, made all the more so by the addition of the two District 1 Victors.

It gets so bad that after a few minutes, Cashmere rolls her eyes and spears Katniss a look. "We're not planning on attacking you, Girl on Fire. Relax already."

Katniss tenses and throws Cashmere an edged look that makes the other Victor raise an eyebrow. Gloss remains silent by Elara's side, though he eyes both women carefully as he eats.

"…It doesn't make much sense that you'd join us," Katniss slowly says, leaning back against the tree she's sitting in front of. She stares at Cashmere, then flicks her gaze over to Gloss, and finishes, "Unless you were planning on turning on us."

Gloss snorts and glances over at Elara. Katniss and Peeta don't know the whole plan. They don't realize that District 13 is involved, and that if they're lucky, they'll all be saved from both the arena and the Capitol. They don't know the real reason as to why Gloss and Cashmere are here – that it's because they want to survive. Attacking Katniss Everdeen would be a surefire way of ruining all of their chances at that goal. But – they don't know that.

"Something funny?" Katniss demands, glaring at Gloss with flinty eyes. His snort hadn't been quiet.

Gloss chews for a moment, then carefully responds, "What's funny about wanting to live another day? That's why we're here. It only makes sense to join up with the biggest group."

Katniss scoffs but falls silent, though she continues to glower at Gloss and his sister throughout the duration of their meal. Elara doesn't say anything. Katniss is a headstrong girl; she needs to navigate this by herself, or not at all. Elara has learned that much about her so far, despite having spoken to her only a few times previously. She understands it. If she were in Katniss's shoes, she doubts she'd trust someone like Gloss either. Before she had truly gotten to know him, she had been intimidated by his stature and his past as well, and had thought him a heartless man – until, of course, she realized just how much of a heart he really has.

When it starts getting dark, they decide on who will keep the first watch and Finnick volunteers. Katniss turns him down though, no doubt because she wants to keep a close eye on their new companions. The District 1 Victors don't bother offering. They know that Katniss would never allow it. She doesn't trust them.

Still…

"You should get some sleep, Gloss," Elara whispers to him, noticing that he isn't getting comfortable. He's still leaning against the tree that he's been occupying for the last hour, and doesn't look like he has any intention on resting.

He glances at her and murmurs, "I couldn't even if I tried." Then, patting his thigh, he tells her, "Lay down. I'll watch over you."

She rolls her eyes at him. "I'd rather you slept. You look exhausted."

He huffs at her stubbornness. "Don't argue, Winston."

She stares at him for a moment before sighing and lowering herself to rest against his leg, knowing that it's useless to try to convince him to do anything he doesn't want to do.

"You're so frustrating," she mumbles, getting comfortable. He chuckles and sweeps his fingers through her hair, looking down at her with a soft expression capturing his gaze. It's barely there, that softness, but she sees it and she can't help but smile up at him.

He brushes a strand of hair from her face and whispers, "Goodnight."

She just grumbles again instead of responding, and closes her eyes. It doesn't take long for her to fall asleep. She feels like she hasn't slept in years, and now that she is in his presence, she drifts off quickly and almost effortlessly.

But Gloss…

He just sits there and watches her for a long moment before turning his gaze up to the sky and tilting his head back. His fingers twist through her hair gently, and the softness of his expression becomes just a little more potent.

Only one other person notices it, but Katniss is still not completely convinced that he is as goodhearted as Elara Winston claims he is. She frowns and turns away, and Elara's words spin through her mind as she keeps watch over her companions.

_He's not the brutal Career he pretends to be. It's all a mask. A front, for the Capitol. We're all a part of the system. We all have our role to play._

Katniss wonders if Elara is right about Gloss, or if her own love for him has blinded her. She wonders if a Career can even be anything but brutal and merciless and bloody. She wonders what a man like Gloss is like, when his mask is off. And Katniss wonders, yet again, what her role is. What piece of her the system wants to claim, and whether or not she'll be able to fight against it if need be.

But, as always, she doesn't have any of the answers she seeks. She wonders if she ever will.


	46. Its fatal arrows bleed my soul, and yet

**C** **hapter Forty Six | Its fatal arrows bleed my soul, and yet**

"_For in a minute there are many days."_

_3.5, 45 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_It is easy to get lost in her. She is like a cresting sun that burgeons over the horizon. The rays hit all corners of the earth like sweeping beams that cast the shadows away. It is warm and vibrant and full of light._

_He doesn't know how it happened, really. Sometimes, the puzzle of his own heart leaves him utterly confounded. When he thinks about the man he was before she came hurtling into his life, it is like looking back upon an old photograph into a world that no longer exists. It is a world without sun, without warmth, without vibrancy._

_He gets lost in it so easily. She drags him into her world with a single glance, and he surrenders every time._

"_Elara," he whispers, his voice just a scrape of noise – a hoarse plea that vanishes into the night just as quickly as it is uttered. He is not accustomed to begging. Sometimes when he is forced to visit a hotel room and he has to strip away his dignity and allow himself to be used, his clients enjoy reducing him to such an extent. He is left bare, and all his pride is in shambles on the floor. He has no say in what those clients do to him. He isn't allowed to say no. But here, with Elara, it is different. She doesn't put her pleasure over his. She doesn't take any part of him that isn't willingly given. And when he calls to her, she answers him._

_Her fingers twist with his, pulling them over his head and pushing them into the pillows and she moves over him. The full moon creates an atmosphere of efflorescence as it shimmers over their bodies and presses its light into their skin. She looks like some celestial being from some far away world among the stars – and he, the hapless fool who had somehow managed to win her favor._

_When she looks down at him with those reverent eyes, he can hardly breathe._

"_I'm gonna come," she gasps. Her voice is shallow and broken; a splinter of overwhelmed passion that rises through her form like a tall wave that plunges over the shore. The moan that leaves her throat seems to break her voice into delicate shards, like cracking glass spread over marble. It makes him crazy, especially when the edge of his name is pressed into that heady mixture of sound._

_His chest is heaving, along with his heart, whose tempo is a fast beat that drives through him with startling potency. He can't look away from her – the way her body moves is irresistibly divine. Every inch of her is the answer to a prayer that he hadn't known he'd uttered._

_His hips roil up into hers, clashing with the exhilarating heat of her. He is always so surprised at how warm she is. How, when he's inside her, it feels like he's plunging into a tempestuous wildfire that devours everything in its path. And – there is something about the way she grips him, something about the way she pushes his hands over his head and takes from him the pleasure that she is so often denied, which turns that wildfire into a blazing conflagration for which there is no end, and no beginning, and no middle either – only her and him and the moon and their bodies, rising up like an inferno of flame._

_He can't stop the moan from capturing his voice when he heaves, "Me too." Can't stop her passion from overmastering him, and every single shard of self-control he ever thought he had._

_Elara whimpers above him, head tilted back, body arched just so – and she is so utterly perfect in this moment that Gloss can only grit his teeth and groan as he feels her clench around him. And at that point, holding himself back is about as successful as holding back a great, untamable river._

"_Fuck," he groans, hands fluttering out of her weakened grip to clench around her hips. He feels the familiar desperation of his end pluck through his body like the rift of some long lost symphony crescendoing into a brutal chorus, and he is an enthralled listener that couldn't have turned away even if he tried._

_Elara isn't expecting the way he abruptly rolls her over, pressing her into the mattress and following her down. She stares at him with a look of amazement, as if she is witnessing some spiritual miracle that transcends every single human limitation she ever thought she knew, and reaches out to curl her fingers around his bicep as the momentum of his thrusts possess him._

_Within the press of those few seconds he takes her to another world, and the pleasure that hits her hard once again has her breathlessly keening out his name and coming all over again._

_She has never felt so much passion from another man. She must have been with a hundred clients at that point, but none of them have ever made her feel even the slightest hint of desire. If not for Gloss, her perspective of this carnal art would be dismal and harrowing. If not for him, she wouldn't even know that this brand of pleasure exists._

_He heaves out a satisfied groan and presses his weight over her, then seems to remember just how heavy he is and pushes himself to the side. They lay there for what feels like an age, gasping around the intense bliss that had just been theirs and slowly coming down from the tall spiral of pleasure. The eternity of a moment gently shutters through them. They feel, at once, as if they are caught between every extreme that has ever existed – they are young but burdened, experienced but naïve, alive but lifeless._

_Then Elara turns into his body and hooks her leg over his waist and sighs out against his shoulder, and the balance is suddenly recalibrated._

"_Sometimes when I'm with you, I feel it's the first time all over again," she murmurs after a long moment, and her voice is edged with the shard of a laugh._

_Gloss hums, considering her words for a while before wondering, "Is that a good thing?"_

_She turns her chin up to look at him. The moonlight casts an elusive sort of light over his features. She studies him for a moment before smirking and slowly drawing her hand over his chest in spiraling shapes. Against his jaw, she breathes, "The first time I was nervous then…but I was also amazed."_

_At her words, Gloss chuckles. He looks down at her, and when he responds his breath shifts over her lips. He prompts, "Amazed?"_

_She grins. Her hand flattens over his abdomen, laying against the cut of muscle that ripples beneath his skin, and whispers, "Well, you do have an impressive body."_

_The corner of his mouth turns up. "Mmhmm," he hums, clearly agreeing with her. She chuckles, and weaves her fingers around his as she lifts his hand up. She takes a moment to study it before murmuring, "…And you definitely know how to use these hands of yours…"_

_His mouth quirks up with amusement._

_Then, reaching up to press her fingertips against the scruff of his jaw, she tilts her lips to his in the barest shift of a kiss, and against him she breathes, "But mainly, I'm amazed at how thoroughly I forget myself. It's like…being swept up in an ocean, but not drowning. You get pulled under the waves but you don't need to breathe."_

_He stares at her for a long moment. He looks subtly surprised at her description, as if he isn't expecting the spin of her words or the soft sincerity behind them._

_After that moment passes, Gloss rolls over to face her, gathering her up against him and murmuring, "You're being very sentimental tonight."_

_Elara hums and wraps an arm around his back. She tangles her body with his as naturally as she draws breath. "Do you not like it?" she muses lightly, and he scoffs._

"…_I never said that," is all he responds with, and then he leans in to press his mouth to hers and Elara forgets herself again._

_It is so easy to get lost in him._

* * *

Elara wakes up to the severe brightness of the sun shining into her face. She frowns and turns her head to the side, only to roll onto the hot sand. With a grumble, her eyes flutter open.

Mags is nearest to her, having no doubt been up for hours now. She looks over at Elara with a wink, then her eyes dart over her shoulder for just a moment before returning to hers. Elara raises an eyebrow, turns to look behind her, and sees Gloss laying in the sand beside her body. He must have changed positions last night, once his stubbornness had dissipated and he had realized how tired he really was. She rolls her eyes at his obstinacy and sits up. She glances back over at Mags, who is smiling very mischievously, and raises an eyebrow.

She doesn't even want to know what has procured such an expression on the old lady's face. Some things are better left unsaid.

"Breakfast, Elara?" Finnick asks, traipsing into the fold with a woven basket of freshly caught oysters. He's wet from head to toe, which means he's probably been splashing around in the water all morning in typical District 4 fashion.

Elara takes the offered basket, but complains, "I'm sick of seafood." She sends Finnick a look, to which he goes through a show of sternly crossing his arms and giving her a look right back. He's about to give her a mocking berate when suddenly the soft chime of a parachute invades the air, and instead he turns his eyes upward.

He lets out a laugh. "Wow. I guess someone actually listens to you after all, Elara," he jokes, and she rolls her eyes at him. Beside her, Gloss chuckles.

She glances down at him with a raised eyebrow, to which he just stretches uncaringly and flops onto his back, closing his eyes again to block out the bright sunlight. He really does look like a big cat, especially in the sun. It makes her smile just the tiniest bit.

The parachute contains bread. Elara is more than pleased at the sight of it, because it not only gives her something more substantial to eat but it's also the sign they've been waiting for since the start of the Games. The sign that tells them that the countdown has officially begun. Finnick does the honors, pulling open the parachute and taking out the large basket. There are twenty four rolls, which means that only twenty four hours remain. As the bread is passed out, all she can think about is District 13 and the life that is waiting for her.

Perhaps it is foolish of her to be so hopeful. So many things have happened to her in her short life – nightmares that have plagued her waking moments with as much clarity as those that plague her dreamscapes. She is used to the difficult tides of her life as a Victor. In a way, it is all she knows, now. And while she can vividly imagine a life with the man by her side and all the trimmings and freedoms that would accompany it, it is yet an undefined image that carries no weight save for the wistfulness of her own mind. She is afraid that the pretty picture that she can so readily paint will fall away like every other hope she has ever had.

Beside her, Gloss sits up and pushes a hand through his hair. He sends her a short glance, his mouth tilting up just so, before getting up and walking to the water's edge. She watches him crouch down to splash water on his face and neck, and suppresses a sigh as she looks down at the bread in her hand.

She turns it around in her fingers in contemplative silence and wonders what the next twenty four hours will bring.

"I can almost hear you thinking," Johanna grumbles, falling down beside her and stretching her legs out. She's carrying a woven basket filled with water. After she takes a sip of it, she passes it over to Elara. A silent peace offering.

Elara exhales with a laugh and drawls, "I know it's a strange concept for you, Johanna." The snide tone her voice takes on makes Johanna snort and nudge her in retribution.

"Now that your man is here, everything's gotten so tense," she mutters after a moment, casting a disparaging look at Gloss and Cashmere, who has joined her brother at the waterside and seems to be quietly speaking with him. Johanna frowns. "Katniss isn't happy about it."

Elara hums in agreement, and raises her eyes to peer at the Girl on Fire, who is sitting beside Beetee and Wiress. She seems to have taken it upon herself to braid Wiress's unmanageable hair, and seems entirely engrossed in the act.

"I know," Elara responds shortly, and lifts the water bowl to take a drink.

Johanna grumbles, "Well, it won't be long now. We're already a week or so in. The Games won't last much longer."

She glances down at the bread that's still in Elara's hand. Neither of them makes mention of the signal that it represents. Johanna's words are hardly discriminatory, but her real meaning blazes through them as clear as day to anyone who understands it.

It seems that they have reached a bit of an impasse. None of them have any desire to venture back into the jungle, but if they remain on the beach indefinitely, the Gamemakers will surely get bored with them. But so far, the group has very little in the way of a plan besides sitting around and waiting for the next twenty four hours to pass.

After a while, though, the cycle comes to an abrupt end. It is none other than Wiress who brings it to a crashing halt. The Victor from District 3 has been mumbling to herself ever since Johanna had dragged her and Beetee into the group. She's been crazily whispering 'tick, tock' over and over again, even in her sleep. It's been driving Johanna insane, but apparently the words are not merely the mad mutterings of a deranged mind.

Katniss, of course, figures it out. She's spent the most time around Wiress, taking care of her in a surprisingly kind and gentle manner that doesn't seem to outwardly fit with the rest of her blunt personality. Several hours go by before she leads Wiress down to the water, and it is during this point in time that Wiress's mumblings take on a whole new meaning.

When Katniss exclaims, "It's a clock!" from the shore, everyone turns to look at her in confusion. She only laughs incredulously and calls, "The arena – it's a clock! Wiress was right!" Then, turning back to the Victor beside her, Katniss grasps her face and grins, "You're a genius, Wiress!"

Wiress, for her part, just smiles, looking relieved that someone had been able to figure out what she's been trying to say for days now. The puzzle of the arena seems to gain a new piece, and everything makes so much sense with its inclusion. The circular forcefield, the invisible barriers, the various dangers found within – they all represent different sections of the clock that this arena is based off of.

Elara laughs and exchanges a glance with Finnick, who had come to sit beside her and Mags some hours before. Then, looking to her other side where Gloss and Cashmere sit, she grins. Cashmere leans forward and smiles back, but her eyes are careful and her posture stiff. The two Victors from District 1 aren't exactly welcomed additions to the group, and they've both been keeping to themselves so far, trying not to rock the boat.

"It makes sense," Peeta says as Katniss and Wiress rejoin them. He pauses, then goes to the jungle's edge to search for a stick. "I'll draw up a map. Maybe we'll be able to get a better idea as to where we are."

They all gather closer together as Peeta draws a circle in the sand and separates it into twelve triangles. He draws a wave at the top to mark noon, and they study the rings of the cornucopia to get a feel for where the poisonous fog and the monkeys are located. It's difficult to do from their current vantage point, though.

"Maybe we should head over to the cornucopia," Beetee suggests, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he eyes the shining metal edifice. The others hesitate. It would be dangerous to be so out in the open. They would be in plain sight for anyone on the beach – not just on this side of the arena but on all sides.

"There's nothing for it," Finnick sighs after a moment, glancing over at Katniss. "If we all go as a group, we should be safe enough."

Of course, it's easier said than done. Mags does not look enthused at the prospect of swimming the distance, and Wiress is still mumbling to herself over to the side. She is more subdued now, but it's clear that being in this arena has done a number on her.

Elara shares a glance with Gloss, and says, "Let's go then, before the huge wave hits."

He reaches for her hand and pulls her to his side. Katniss casts a look at them but doesn't comment on their strange relationship. Instead she just staunchly says, "We could use more weapons anyway." But the look she sends Gloss and Cashmere then makes it clear that they are not included in her sentence. She obviously doesn't like the thought of giving two lethal Careers any more weapons which they might use to kill the rest of them, but she can't bar them from coming along either. For better or for worse, they are all in this together.

They swim out to the cornucopia, but it's a slow trek. Finnick assists Mags, which makes him one of the last ones to arrive. Elara makes it just fine, having had plenty of swimming lessons in the great lake surrounding District 5 as a girl, but Gloss and Cashmere take a little longer. Living in District 1 doesn't exactly allow for many opportunities to swim, and the lessons they'd had back in school haven't stuck with them over the last decade.

Elara holds back an amused laugh as she reached her hand down to help Gloss up. He sends her a look but accepts the offered hand anyway, despite the fact that he doesn't trust the smirking quality of her eyes.

"Don't say a word," he mutters to her as he shakes the water from his hair. She just hums and smirks over at him, but keeps silent.

Johanna, on the other hand…

"I've never seen you flounder so gracelessly before. Guess you're not so great at swimming, Augustine," she barks with a short laugh, and sends him and Cashmere a leer.

Elara rolls her eyes. Gloss growls, "Never claimed to be, Mason."

Cashmere just puts her hand on her brother's arm and sighs, "Let's go."

The Cornucopia is still packed with weapons that had been left behind by the other tributes. There is still blood smeared on the ground in front of it, too. Gloss clenches his jaw and sticks to his sister's side while the others go through the weapons, restocking and assessing what they could use. It is a much calmer and more subdued atmosphere than when he had last stood here, surrendering to his baser nature and filling the shoes of the typical Career in a Bloodbath. The recent memories haunt him. He keeps firmly silent and stands off to the side, looking out over the far beach as a lookout of sorts.

Elara appears at his side a few minutes later, carrying two long daggers. He glances down at them and then raises his eyebrow at her.

"Now this is a scary sight," he drawls, remembering all too well the way she had utterly failed at wielding them during training.

Elara just scoffs and shoves one of them into his hand. "Don't be flippant," she tells him. The edge of his mouth quirks up.

She hands the other one to Cashmere, but the woman just shakes her head. "Take it for yourself. I've got enough already."

Gloss cringes dramatically. "Don't skewer yourself with it, Winston."

Elara nudges him with a short laugh and says, "You're really pushing your luck, you know that? I'll have you know that I've already used these knives, and I was just fine."

He glances down at the belt of weapons she's got around her waist and hums. There's a strange look in his eye when he meets her gaze a moment later. It appears to be a mixture of protectiveness and unease. He reaches out to brush a strand of her hair behind her ear, and murmurs, "Sorry I wasn't there to help."

She looks up at him and slowly says, "It's alright. You're here now."

An apology from Gloss, in any form, is rare. But – it's clear that he means it. His eyes are sincere, and his voice is stark and blunt. Being separated in this place has not been easy for either of them, but…

It's true. They're together now. They'll be okay. She hopes.

He doesn't respond, just lowers his hand to her back and returns his gaze to the beaches. Behind them, Peeta and the others start working on filling out the map, so the three of them join in to see how the progress is. If Katniss takes notice of the new dagger at Gloss's side, she doesn't say anything about it. She does cast Elara a strange look though, to which Elara just calmly stares back as if daring her to say something.

"The fog must be at seven o'clock," Peeta murmurs, marking the sector with swirls to denote the poisonous mist. "…And that must mean the monkeys are eight o'clock."

Finnick glances up at the beach and muses, "Jabberjays at three?"

They all seem to agree. Peeta marks that sector next, and then, to everyone's surprise, Gloss speaks up and says, "Lightning bolts at 2." He crosses his arms and adds, "We got caught in it a few days ago."

Elara glances at him. The thought of him in danger is not one she likes to contemplate, even though she knows that he is more than capable of fending for himself. He doesn't say anything, but the look he sends her says all that needs to be said.

They fill in as many sectors as they can, including the large lightning tree at 6 o'clock and the blood rain at 3 o'clock. Peeta is just turning to the other side of the arena when suddenly, they are met with a new danger.

It happens too quickly for anyone to prepare themselves. The Cornucopia begins to move, and the land along with it. The rocks beneath their feet start spinning, making them all stumble and try to hold onto something. It is a difficult feat, though, when the spinning motion gets that much more intense. Elara's hand is ripped from Gloss's grasp, and before she knows it, she's being flung into the water with brutal force. She gasps and ends up inhaling salt water, which burns her throat and makes her cough heavily. She isn't able to break the surface of the water for more than a few seconds at a time, and ends up scrabbling uselessly at the waves while the world becomes a frenzied spiral around her.

It doesn't last for more than a few minutes, but it feels like forever. When Elara finally pushes herself up to the surface, she's a spluttering, heaving mess. She propels herself to the rocks as best she can in her state, and starts hacking up sea water.

She's pulling herself up when two hands grasp her waist and help. Gloss looks somewhat worried. He looks her over as he heaves her into a standing position, and swallows, "You okay?"

He had barely managed to grab hold of the side of the Cornucopia as it started to spin. In the midst of the chaos, he hadn't been able to see where Elara had been thrown. To see her uninjured and safe brings him far more relief than he can say.

He lets out a shaky breath and, before she can answer, drags her into an embrace. She is still coughing even as he pulls her against him, but doesn't complain. He ducks his head against her neck and holds her tightly, not seeming to care that they are in plain sight of the others and that their moment is not exactly private. He is too worried to care what anyone thinks. He can't wait to get out of this hellhole.

"I'm fine…" Elara manages to say, clearing her throat when her voice comes out hoarse. She pulls back to look at him and mutters, "I'm fine, Gloss. Really."

He purses his mouth and nods tightly. He is about to open his mouth to say something more when a commotion draws their attention. They turn their heads to see Beetee in the water, and Finnick preparing to swim out to get him, for the District 3 Victor looks like he doesn't know how to swim. He's flopping around, and his eyes are trained to a body that's floating nearby. When Elara catches sight of it, she whispers, "I think that's Wiress…"

Gloss, who is still holding her tightly around the waist, murmurs, "It is."

The woman is floating face down in the water, unmoving. She is clearly dead. Elara swallows thickly and turns back to face Gloss. She can hear Finnick dive into the water, hear the splash of his momentum and the sound of him swimming over to Beetee. She can hear Peeta say something about how their map is useless now that they don't know what direction is what, and Johanna reassure him that they'll be able to reorient themselves soon enough, once the next hour strikes.

She can hear Cashmere join in and add that the tall lightning tree marks 6 o'clock, and that the change in direction doesn't really matter after all. She can hear Katniss soothing Mags, who is thankfully alright, if not a little out of sorts. She hears all of this, but she sees only the man in front of her.

Gloss is staring down at her. He must see the way her eyes flicker back, reflecting emotions better left unsaid for the time being. He must see them all, creasing the contours of her gaze – want, longing, worry, fear. Perhaps that is why he doesn't hesitate when he leans down to press his mouth to hers.

She kisses him back with forceful intent, reaching up to loop her hands around the back of his neck and moving her mouth with his as if she's afraid that this is the last kiss they'll ever share. He pulls her closer until she is flush against him, hands clenching her waist and fingers splaying out along her lower back. And they forget, for a moment, that they have an audience the size of Panem, and that the others have probably noticed the blatant show of affection, and that really, it isn't a good time to get lost in each other. This is the arena. This is the Hunger Games. But – it is so hard to think about anything else when he is kissing her like this, and Elara just can't pull away.

She feels too warm, too protected, to do anything but fall into him.

That all changes, of course, when suddenly Gloss lets out a painful grunt, and he pushes into her with a momentum that she knows is not planned on his part. With a shaky inhalation, Elara pulls back to see an arrow protruding from Gloss's back. She turns her gaze to the far beach and sees Enobaria standing on the shoreline with a bow. She blanks, hands fluttering over Gloss but not looking away from Enobaria, afraid that she might pull back another arrow. But – she doesn't. From the way Gloss keels forward into Elara, clearly in too much pain to stand up, the Victor from District 2 must think that she had met her mark. She must believe that her shot is enough to kill, for she does not linger long before disappearing into the jungle.

"Elara," Gloss groans. She is having trouble holding his weight up. He's much heavier than she is, and his muscle mass only adds that much more weight to his already imposing size. She stumbles a bit.

"Gloss! Christ – " Cashmere suddenly exclaims, appearing at his side to help Elara. She throws her brother's arm over her shoulders and heaves him upright. The movement seems to help clear his mind as well, for even though he's obviously in pain, he's able to stand on his own two feet with the help of his sister.

Cashmere drags him over to the Cornucopia and he sits down with a grimace. Katniss steps forward and seems to have pushed aside her dislike for now, because when she kneels at his side to look at the wound, her face is blank and clinical.

"It's a clean wound. Doesn't look that deep. We need to bandage it so he can swim back to the shore, and then rebandage it with dry fabric," she says, peering at the arrow shaft.

Elara kneels down in front of him and grasps his hands, her heart frenzied with worry. Katniss's diagnosis makes her feel better, but seeing Gloss in pain doesn't help matters. She holds him tightly while Cashmere puts a hand on his shoulder and looks back at the beach where Enobaria had been, as if she expects the woman to reappear and try again.

"We're too out in the open," Gloss mutters around the pain. "Let's get back to the beach first – "

"Absolutely not," Katniss cuts in with a glare. "You'll never be able to swim the distance with an arrow sticking out of your back, you idiot. Now shut up and stay still."

Gloss looks distinctly surprised at the Girl on Fire's tone. He stares at Katniss with confused eyes, then looks over at Elara and makes a face. She can't help but chuckle at it, even though she knows he only does it for her benefit. The pain that flares through his eyes and settles in the planes of his face makes for a heavy sight.

While Katniss does her work, Finnick and Beetee return to the Cornucopia to see what's going on. Gloss doesn't seem to appreciate being the center of attention – not this kind of attention, anyway. He grits his teeth and doesn't make a single sound when Katniss jerks the arrow out of his back with one strong motion. He won't allow himself to be seen in such a weak way.

While Katniss wraps a bandage around his chest and secures it over the wound, Finnick says, "We've got Beetee's wire. Had to pry it out of Wiress's hands before the hovercraft took her."

Beetee's wire – another piece of the plan that will help them break out of the arena, if all goes well.

"Good," Johanna says. Elara is a little surprised that she hadn't said anything snippy to Gloss. She looks strangely solemn as she stares down at Elara and him.

Once Katniss is finished tying the bandage off, Elara catches her eye and quietly tells her, "Thank you, Katniss." The words ring with sincerity.

Katniss purses her lips but nods and mutters, "Let's head back to the beach before anyone else decides to ambush us."

Elara and Cashmere help Gloss stand, much to his consternation. His sister looks over at her and says, "I'll help him to the shore. Don't worry."

She sighs but doesn't argue. Instead she just squeezes Gloss's hand once more before letting go.

Nothing is working out quite as she had hoped, but she'll take what she can get. This is the Hunger Games, after all, and nothing is as it seems.


	47. With every show of love that you perform

**Chapter Forty Seven | With every show of love that you perform,**

"_But passion lends them power, time means, to meet,_

_Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet."_

_2, 13-14 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Cashmere is on her way to the kitchen to assess the state of the refrigerator when she hears her brother's voice. It's almost dinner time, and it's her turn to put something together. She'd gone out to the grocery store earlier that day to get a few ingredients. She's going to make pasta, like her mother used to do every Sunday. Except, unlike her mother, Cashmere isn't very good at making homemade sauce, so she usually cheats and buys it. The canned stuff is disgusting by comparison, but she had never really had the opportunity to learn any of her mother's recipes before their parents died, and besides, she's never been all that interested in the homemaker lifestyle that her mother had embraced. The mere thought of a scarred Victor being in such a role makes Cashmere chuckle._

_As she gets out the cans of tomato sauce and starts to open them, she thinks that her mother would probably be horrified at the sight. The well-off families of District 1 would never even think of taking such an easy approach to cooking. Why, Cashmere's father would have had a fit if he had to eat this after a long day at work. As it is, though, Cashmere doesn't really care what she eats, and Gloss…well, he seems to be a bit too preoccupied to even realize that his sister is there._

_He's sprawled out on the couch, legs propped up onto the mahogany coffee table. The couch is facing the kitchen, but he hardly seems to notice Cashmere's presence. He's too busy chuckling into the phone, his voice low and his words soft. Cashmere doesn't think she's ever heard him talk like that to anyone, but she'd bet her life that the person on the other line is from District 5._

_Cashmere eyes her brother cautiously as she pours the cans into a saucepan and sets it onto the stovetop. His expression is calm and relaxed. When the corner of his mouth edges up into a smile, he looks exactly like he used to before his Games. Cashmere is struck by this. She stands at the stove, staring at him unapologetically as memories of their lives before their Games spiral through her._

_His eyes had been lighter back then. He'd been cockier, more arrogant, more District 1 – he'd had a typical privileged attitude. They both did. Besides the fact that they'd never wanted for anything during their childhoods, they both excelled in the Academy and had every right to be arrogant about it. Before his Games, Gloss had worn his pride as if it was a cloak. He used to laugh all the time. There had never been any reason not to. He had never let worries plague him until she had become a Victor, and the process of her own transformation had altered her younger brother indefinitely. Or so she thought._

_Sitting there on the couch, talking to Elara Winston, Gloss looks like the very same confident man from his youth. His smile is reflected in his eyes. When he tips his head back and laughs at something Elara says, it's like the passage of years and their accompanying nightmares disappear completely._

_Cashmere doesn't want to admit it, but she's a little bit amazed at this. She stands there for a long moment until Gloss glances over at her and raises an eyebrow, and she remembers that she's been staring at him for one moment too long. She pauses, gives him a haughty look, and turns to get one of the pots from the kitchen drawer. As she stands by the sink and fills it with water, she muses over this unexpected phenomenon._

_It's been several years since Elara has entered Gloss's life, and by extension, her own. Over time, Gloss seems to have grown more mature in some ways, and more childish in others. He has fewer nightmares, and drinks less. Sometimes, usually when he returns to District 1 after a visit to the Capitol, he'll have this nostalgic look on his face for days until he is able to wrangle it down._

_Cashmere ponders this as she sets the pot onto the stove and turns the heat on. She slowly opens the box of pasta she'd bought earlier that day and casts a quick glance at her brother. She thinks it's rather startling, the way Elara seems to have altered him. She'd heard once that people don't change that easily, but perhaps it isn't change at all – perhaps it's more of an uncovering; a peeling away of the layers that have been suffocating him for so long._

_Before long, the pasta boils and the sauce is heated, and Cashmere is getting a plate for herself. As she eats, she surreptitiously watches her brother from the kitchen. He looks like he's been captured in a sort of peaceful serendipity that knows no bounds. And – even though she still isn't quite used to the idea of Elara Winston being a part of his life, especially considering what part of it she actually has, Cashmere feels a bit of peace too as she watches him. She feels this strange elusive relief at the sight of her caustic, angry brother looking so at ease. It is a rare sight._

_After a while, Cashmere brings a plate of pasta to Gloss. She puts it on the coffee table, looks at him, and pauses. Then she frowns and mutters, "Tell her I said hi."_

_She doesn't linger to see Gloss's expression upon the request, nor to listen to hear if he honors it or not. She storms out of the kitchen as if she's annoyed, but to be honest, annoyance is probably the last thing she feels._

_She feels an odd sort of happiness; a grateful appreciation. She won't tell Elara that, of course, but as she heads upstairs, she feels herself smile regardless._

* * *

They all meet back up on the beach. It takes Gloss some time to make the swim. Cashmere stays by his side, though he doesn't look entirely pleased at the thought of being babysat. Elara's grateful though. At least he won't drown in spite of himself. Stubborn man.

Katniss reapplies the bandage the moment he sits down in the sand, looking distinctly paler and sicklier after his swim. Forcing his body to move like that had not been easy, and he seems to have lost a lot of blood during the process. Katniss prods at the wound a bit, much to his annoyance, and wraps a fresh bandage around him. Elara and Cashmere remain near his side, but Elara is content to give him the space he clearly wants. Perhaps it's his show of weakness or the pain that the wound brings, but he seems more frustrated than usual. She knows him well enough by now to give him time to work through that frustration.

Instead of lingering too close, Elara joins Peeta and Finnick as they wade out into the water to collect mussels and oysters for an early dinner a couple of hours later. The sun is already sinking despite it being roughly four o'clock, making it apparent that the Gamemakers are rushing the time. It is a little daunting to wonder at the reason for this. They wouldn't shorten the day unless they had something planned for them. Elara can only hope that whatever it is, the Gamemakers' plans for them will be put aside once the group can enact their own plan – perhaps it will be interesting enough for the Gamemakers to allow them to work.

In any case, there is no shortage of food, and even though Elara is sick of eating raw seafood and bread, she doesn't complain. It's far better than starving.

"Lover boy over there looks pretty pissed," Finnick drawls as he deposits some mussels into one of the woven baskets they'd brought with them. He shoots a glance over to the beach, studying Gloss's glowering expression with a chuckle. Then, turning back to Elara, he winks and adds, "Too bad the whole of Panem is watching us. I bet you'd be able to make him feel better."

The obvious insinuation that weaves through his words has her rolling her eyes at him. "Oh shut up," she replies, though it is said in a good-natured sort of way. Finnick likes to tease her about her relationship with Gloss and always has. That certainly hasn't changed.

He chuckles again and nudges her playfully. "Come to think of it, Gloss and Katniss are kind of similar in that way, don't you think Peeta?"

Peeta scrunches his face up at the comparison, looking vaguely conflicted, and hesitatingly says, "…I don't really know Gloss that well. I don't think I've ever spoken to him before now."

Finnick, as usual, has a response to that. He smirks, "You should count that as a blessing. He's a total brute."

Interestingly enough, Peeta looks a bit conflicted at that, too. He glances over at the man in question and shrugs, "He's not like that around Elara." Turning his eyes back to the woman beside him, he muses, "You're so level headed that I'd find it hard to believe you'd fall for a brute."

The words 'fall for' makes Elara cringe. She's so used to hiding her relationship with Gloss that even now, after the last day of being in close quarters with him and not shying away from expressing their affection for each other, it feels strange. After years of pretending to be only good friends, it is difficult to recall the fact that the entire country knows that they are together. Being in this fabricated bubble where the reality of her Capitol life holds little sway over her current thoughts has rather blunted the realization that they had completely and utterly disregarded their continued secrecy.

"…I haven't fallen for him," Elara mutters, purely because she is so accustomed to denying feeling anything for Gloss save friendship and sisterly love. She's so accustomed to it that it had taken her years to stop lying to herself about her real feelings for him.

Finnick barks out an amused laugh at this and flicks some water in her direction. She scowls at him and pushes even more water right back, not quite as amused.

"Oh please," he snorts, and ducks his shoulder under the water to reach a few oysters sitting calmly in the sand several feet below. "What's the point in pretending, Elara? After your little confession during the interviews, everyone knows he's the one you were referring to."

Her scowl just deepens at his remark and she pointedly doesn't respond, which naturally only makes Finnick look even more amused.

Even Peeta looks vaguely amused at her expense, but he doesn't show it as clearly as Finnick does when he says, "I don't think Katniss hates him as much as she lets on. She wouldn't have treated his wound if she did."

Finnick hums and adds, "I think you may be right, Peeta. Katniss has trouble expressing any emotion besides anger."

Elara dumps a few more mussels into her basket and sighs, "I guess this is our lot in life, Peeta. Loving people who are too thick headed for their own good." She sends him a sarcastic little smile that makes him laugh.

They linger for a few more minutes before a low cough sounds at the edge of the water, and they all turn to see the man they've just been discussing standing there with his arms crossed. Gloss looks a little out of his element, especially when Finnick sends him an edgy smirk that is just shy of predatory.

"…Everdeen told me to wash my wound with salt water to clean it," is all he says, eyeing the three of them as if he doesn't trust them. He graces Elara with the very same look and she raises an eyebrow at him.

Finnick's smirk widens. "By all means," he breezily says, gesturing to the water. "I'll wash your back if you wash mine." Gloss sends him a deadly glower at the mere suggestion, and Finnick snickers. He doesn't linger though. After a moment of being on the receiving end of the glaring look, he turns to Peeta and says, "I think we've got enough anyway. What say we give our resident lovers a bit of privacy?"

Privacy – the whole concept of it is a joke here in this arena, and most especially at the fact that they are only a handful of feet away from the others. Elara rolls her eyes at him and splashes some water his way when he wades past her, much to his amusement. He takes her basket from her with a jaunty wink and purrs, "Have fun, Elara."

She purses her mouth at him but doesn't respond. As they leave, she raises her hand to Gloss and says, "You can't clean it out yourself. Come here."

It's frankly amusing, the way he turns his glowering gaze to her as if he thinks she's about to laugh at him. He looks like a bear that is poised to attack, all bristled and riled up, and she has to forcefully press her smile down at the sight he makes. After a moment, though, he just grumbles and steps into the water with a mumbled, "I'm gonna kill Enobaria. That fucking bitch."

She just hums and turns him so that he's facing away from her, waist deep in the water. Katniss must have taken the bandage off to keep it dry, for his back is free of the cloth. The spandex outfit had been torn where the arrow pierced it, and since then it's been ripped further to properly bandage it. She places her palm on his shoulder blade and studies the wound. Katniss had said it isn't deep, but it definitely looks like it hurts. Though it's stopped bleeding over the last couple of hours since their return to the beach, it's still raw and angry, and when she lifts a handful of salt water to it, Gloss grimaces and jerks away from her with a muttered curse.

"Oh hold still already," she tells him, catching his arm to keep him in place. He sends her a barbed look over his shoulder and purses his lips.

"…Easy for you to say," he mumbles, straightening his shoulders in preparation.

She allows a brief smile to flutter over her face at the way he's acting, all petulant and disagreeable. She's seen him truly angry often enough over the last eight years, so she knows that the current state he's in doesn't even come close to that. No – he is just out of his comfort zone. They all are.

She lifts another handful of water over his wound. This time, he doesn't grimace, even when she's a little rougher as she tries to make sure that it's all clean. Gloss just tilts his head back and murmurs, "I don't like it…"

Elara pauses, peering up at the back of his head, and wonders, "You don't like what?"

He glances over his shoulder at her and quietly says, "There are too many people in this group. It's dangerous, Elara. The Gamemakers are going to send something at us soon unless we do something." She searches his eyes carefully but she knows he's right, especially when he turns to face her and adds, "Enobaria's little stunt will tide them over for a while, but not long. If the Capitol gets bored, it's all over. You know how this works."

Indeed, she does. She's mentored enough tributes over the last eight years where she understands this process. She's already been in her own arena, fighting her own nightmares, to not figure out how the game is played. She looks up at Gloss, the man she would defy the system for. Then she murmurs, "It's almost over. It won't be long now."

His eyes flash out a warning to her. Being too obvious with her words is dangerous. If the Capitol suspects that something is out of the ordinary, they are finished. But – Elara's words are not scandalous. The Games are almost over. Even without the plan that they are going to enact, everyone knows that the Games rarely last for more than a couple of weeks. The Capitol gets bored with them, the Gamemakers are forced to finish them all off in order to sate their bloodlust, and the cycle repeats.

Elara reaches out to touch his waist and says, "Let's stick together from now on."

And Gloss, he just lets out a humorless chuckle and edges closer, drawling, "As if you could get rid of me now, Winston."

She laughs, and thinks back upon all the moments they have spent in between the constant whiplash of hellos and goodbyes. The countless nights spent wrapped up in each other's arms; the passion, the laughter – the mixture of emotions that she had never known could exist in such close quarters, with such clarity…

"Turn around so I can finish this," Elara says after a long moment, and nudges Gloss's shoulder. He just grumbles and turns, cringing a bit when Elara doesn't hesitate to pour more salt water over the wound.

"Ow – Christ, Elara, would you be more – ow, fuck!" He turns to glare at her and she bites her lip to stop her smile from betraying her. It doesn't work, of course. Gloss knows her too well.

"I'm going to remember this if _you_ ever get injured," he mutters to her, but she knows he's all bark and no bite, and Elara just smiles.

* * *

Half an hour later, they're all sitting down for their meal. Johanna passes the bread around. They all get two pieces, not bothering to ration it too strictly at this point. The plan is set for tonight, and they're all hoping that they won't have to eat mussels and oysters for a very long time after this. Even Finnick is getting a little bored with the seafood options, if his expression is anything to go by.

Luckily, their boredom doesn't last very long. Beetee takes a sip of water and then reaches to grasp the heavy coil of wire that he's been clutching since their return to the Cornucopia earlier that day. He holds it like it's a lifeline, and Elara knows why. Without the wire, their plan means nothing. Though Katniss and Peeta aren't aware, said plan has been in the works long before the start of the Games. Haymitch hadn't been overly generous with explaining to Elara the finer details, but she knows enough to understand the bigger picture.

She is, therefore, not very surprised when Beetee slowly says, "I have a plan."

The words capture the attention of the entire group. They all stop eating to look over at him. Finnick and Johanna's eyes flash knowingly. They've been waiting for this. Beetee, nondescript though he is, is the hinge of this plan.

"A plan?" Katniss repeats. Unlike the others, her expression is curious.

Gloss shifts in the sand. The movement edges him closer to Elara's side, where she sits next to Cashmere in the sand. It is a subtle move, seemingly unintentional, but she knows that it is done purposefully; a silent show of strength.

Beetee nods.

"Do tell," Finnick drawls, catching the intellectual's eye. It's all rather strange, really, to know the plan already but to force their expressions into intrigue at hearing it again. They must appear as if they have had no prior knowledge of it. It isn't only for Katniss's benefit, but to protect them from the Capitol too, just in case something goes wrong.

Beetee is good at weaving his words. He starts by carefully wondering, "We know that Enobaria is still at large somewhere in the jungle." He glances cautiously at Gloss, as if his injury is proof enough of that, before saying, "There are other tributes still alive too, but we haven't seen any of them in the last few days. If you were one of them, where do you think you would go to ensure your safety?"

He looks at Katniss, as if he's asking her this directly, but it's Johanna who snorts and inputs, "Not the jungle, that's for sure."

Beetee nods. "Correct. Which means…"

Peeta shrugs, "The beach, I suppose. That's the safest place in the arena."

The Victor from District 3 sends Peeta a proud smile, as if the boy is a student who has given him the right answer to a complicated question. "That's right," he praises, "But _we're_ here, claiming the beach. So, what would the next best option be?"

The group falls silent for a moment, before Katniss slowly says, "Close by. Maybe in the tree line, that way you'd be close enough to safety if something happens."

Cashmere hums and adds, "…And you'd be able to keep an eye out on, well, _us." _Katniss sends her a look and she shrugs, "What? That's what any Career would do."

Looking thoroughly unimpressed, Katniss quietly scoffs.

But Beetee just says, "That's a good point, Cashmere. Yes, the other tributes would make sure that they are close to the beach, both for their own safety as well as to make sure they know what's happening. We are a big group, after all."

He places the coil of wire in his lap and says, "Now, here's my plan. This wire is extremely conductive to electricity. It's strong enough to carry a charge and not burn it out." He bends a piece of the end and glances over at Elara with a knowing smile. "If I remember correctly, you laid a trap using wire in your Games, didn't you Elara?"

Elara looks a little surprised at the direct question. She haltingly responds, "…Yes. I used the lake as an energy source. That's how I won my Games."

Beetee nods. "I propose that we take a page out of Elara's book and do the same thing. But instead of using a lake, we use the ocean. We already have our supply of electricity right in front of us."

Johanna glances over at the lightning tree that rises up in the jungle several sectors away from where they sit. The tree is taller than the other trees that surround it, and its blackened limbs seem to stick out like the charred remains of a building's foundation. "…You plan on using the lightning tree?" she asks dubiously, even though she already knows the plan. Her tone is a charade. Katniss and Peeta can't know that this is has been planned already.

Elara makes an impressed noise in the back of her throat. "If we wrap the wire around the tree and then run it down to the water, the lightning would fry everything within twenty meters of the beach."

Beetee nods. "…And anyone hiding out in the tree line."

Peeta looks impressed. "It would take out all our competition in one fell swoop."

"Precisely," Beetee responds.

Katniss slowly muses, "Then we'd need to leave soon to make it to the tree on time. The lightning strikes at midnight, but I doubt it'll be a quick plan to execute."

Trekking through the dangerous jungle to wrap the tree with the wire, and then trekking back to the beach to deposit the wire into the water – and making sure that they are all protected from stray tributes all the while – will not be an easy thing to do. Katniss doesn't look unwilling though. She seems to realize that this is as good a plan as any.

"We should head over there after we eat," Beetee suggests. "I'd like to take a look at the tree to make sure this plan will work."

They all agree to this, and they finish their meal quickly after that. The trek through the jungle is long and muggy. They are constantly batting flies away as the temperature gets cool enough for them to come out. The sun continues to dip below the horizon, and though they can no longer see it now that they're in the jungle, they do see the diminishing light. With all the shade already around them from the thick canopy of trees that tower on all sides, the darkness falls hard.

Elara jumps a little when she feels someone take hold of her hand. She looks to the side and sees Cashmere. The stoic blonde Victor casts her only a brief look before turning her sharp eyes back to the path, but her presence is immensely relieving to Elara, who grasps her hand tightly. Behind the pair, Gloss keeps his eyes trained to the ground to avoid tripping over the gnarled roots. He notices his sister's actions, but he doesn't comment on them. He is inwardly pleased, though, that Cashmere's opinion of Elara has changed so drastically over the last eight years. Her initial dislike of his lover has all but vanished. The more she had gotten to know Elara, the less she seemed to hate her, until at last Cashmere seemed to have started treating her as if she was her sister.

One day, perhaps soon, Gloss would like to make that more official. As he walks behind them and clutches his spear tightly, he thinks that maybe their day will come after all. It has been a hidden dream for so long – kept firmly rooted in the back of his mind but never spoken of. It had always been too much to hope for, but now…

District 13 awaits. So many things could change. He lifts his eyes to the back of Elara's head and allows, for one brief moment, to feel the hope that he has pushed back for so long.

They reach the lightning tree before it gets too dark to see where they are going. Beetee immediately starts circling the massive trunk, reaching out to touch the blackened bark as if he is taking its measure. Knowing him, he probably is.

"So what's the verdict?" Finnick asks as he helps Mags sit down on a nearby fallen tree. She gives Finnick a toothless smile and pats his cheek in thanks. Elara decides to keep the old lady company and joins her, giving Mags a gentle smile in the process.

"I think we should start wrapping the wire," Beetee says in response. "Peeta, could you hold this up to the tree?" Peeta reaches out to take the end of the wire and does as asked while Beetee starts to circle the tree with the coil. Before long, there are several layers of shining coppery wire that glimmers just so with the final beams of daylight.

"How much of it do we need?" Gloss wonders, crossing his arms and eyeing the wire. "Will we have enough to reach the beach?"

Elara glances over at him and murmurs, "There needs to be a good amount of wire around the trunk to act as a proper conductor. We should have enough though."

He turns to raise an eyebrow at her.

"…I always forget that you're a nerd," he sighs after a moment, eyes shining with a hint of playfulness. Elara's mouth drops open in mock offense, though she can hardly take his words seriously when his eyes are shining at her like that.

With a laugh, she says, "How rude!"

He goes to sit down beside her on the fallen tree and nudges her with a smile. Much to his surprise, Mags leans around Elara to pat his knee, sending him a laughing smile. Then, turning to wink at Elara, Mags chuckles soundlessly.

"She thinks you're lucky, Elara. Not sure why," Finnick adds with a smirking scoff, glancing over at Gloss with a raised eyebrow. "He's not much to look at, Mags."

Mags just shakes her head at him and makes a fluttery gesture with her hand, to which Finnick snorts, "Muscular? Yeah, I guess that's about all he's got going for him."

Gloss rolls his eyes. Elara snickers.

"He does have nice muscles," she murmurs to Mags with a sly smile, and catches her lover's eye with a smirk.

Gloss looks decidedly unimpressed with the tide of this particular conversation, especially when his sister smiles wickedly and adds, "Not everyone can be an intellectual, Finnick. Cut him some slack."

Elara chuckles again. Gloss sighs at the realization that everyone is teaming up on him.

"Don't worry, Gloss," Elara tells him after a moment, leaning against him with a wry smile. "You're just fine to me."

With a raised eyebrow, he dryly repeats, "Just _fine?_ Really?"

He looks like he wants to say something more, but Elara just breezily cuts in to amend, "You're _very_ fine."

He makes a face at her and lowly mutters, "If I had you alone, I'd show you how _very fine_ I am."

Elara hums with a wide smirk.

"God, you two need to stop before I vomit," Johanna complains. "You're worse than these star-crossed idiots sometimes." She spears a glance at Peeta and Katniss as if she can't quite believe such a feat is possible, and Elara just laughs again.


	48. I am the fool who ventures in that gate

**Chapter Forty Eight | I am the fool who ventures in that gate.**

"_And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,_

_Forgetting any other home but this."_

_2.2, 75-176 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_When Elara was a new Victor, she thought the nightmares would never end. She was a different person then; intrinsically altered from the girl she had been before her Games. No longer was she an innocent child of District 5, with dreams for the future and a happy family to support her. The moment she stepped out of the arena, she was changed._

_She thought she would never have another peaceful night's sleep again. Her first night back in District 5, she woke up screaming so loudly that her entire family came rushing into her bedroom. Her parents must have thought she was dying as she shakily threw herself from the mattress and sunk down to the floor beside her bed. Her father took Amelia back to her room but her mother stayed, sinking down beside her as tears gathered in her eyes. The sight of her daughter in such a state must have been horrific for her, but the nightmares only continued. Soon, the sound of her nighttime screams was commonplace. They almost became a routine._

_They only got worse when her parents were killed and Elara began to go to the Capitol. Like tangled weeds, they expanded. Before long, she wasn't only dreaming of the arena, but of the singular terror of a hotel room._

_She would dream of being forced down onto a bed. She would dream of her clients and their clawing fingers as they stripped from her the remnants of her dignity. Sometimes, these dreams would cripple her so thoroughly that when she woke from them, she would move her blankets to the floor and sleep on the hard ground, just to get away from the bed._

_She thought they would never end. Perhaps that is why she had been so surprised when those nightmares had disappeared with Gloss beside her._

_Instead of the terrors that plague her unconscious mind, Gloss's presence makes her dream of good things. Things so light and beautiful that she hardly knows how to describe them. There is something about the protective strength of his arms around her and the soft way he breathes against her that makes Elara feel so incredibly at ease._

"_Go to sleep," he whispers, voice muffled against her hair. His fingers gently stroke over the copper strands of it as she lays against him, curled up in the safety of his arms. She thinks she could lay here for an eternity and never tire of the feel of him against her, or the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, or the warm heat of his skin as it presses against hers._

_She sighs and glides her hand over his chest to wrap her arm around him, and murmurs, "I want to stay awake."_

_Her sleepy words make the corner of his mouth push up just so. He likes the sound of her when she's tired. Her voice creases with a low dulcet tone that he finds irresistible. Sometimes, despite his own efforts, it makes him shiver with the gentle cadence of desire. Tonight, it just makes him strangely happy, for no other reason than to hear it muffled against his chest._

_He chuckles, and wonders, "…Why?"_

_When Elara exhales with a tempered hum, shivers threaten to overtake him._

"_I want to…memorize this," she breathes, eyes closed and voice exhausted. "…Don't want to forget when I'm back home…"_

_Gloss's hand flexes over her waist. He sighs out and turns his head to her, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. Her words have the softest touch of sorrow imprinted within them, as if the syllables are weighted with a fluttery sort of sadness._

_Quietly, he asks, "What don't you want to forget?" Even though he already knows. He doesn't want to forget it either, this feeling of her and him together. He wants this moment emblazoned into his mind so that he'll have something to remember too, during the long nights when he is back in District 1 and missing her._

_Elara hums lowly and whispers, "…Laying with you like this…the feel of your skin…" She turns her chin up to sleepily look at him, and reaches up to brush her fingertips over his cheekbone. With a contented smile, she says, "The way your eyes look when you have your arms around me…"_

_He quirks an eyebrow and edges closer. "And how do my eyes look, Winston?"_

_When her smile widens, he can feel the effect of it somewhere deep inside him, thudding through him like a tidal wave._

_Her lips brush against his jaw. She wryly murmurs, "They're soft, and warm, like you're very happy."_

_Gloss hums with a smile and ghosts his mouth over hers as he breathes, "I am happy."_

_He kisses her slowly, almost carefully. There is a certain reverence to his movements – a quiet yearning which is so easily satiated; so effortlessly fulfilled. Elara loses herself in him entirely. He makes her forget everything but his kiss._

"_Are you?" he breathes, still kissing her. His words are swept up between the cadence of it, like waves carrying shells into the sea._

_She hums, "Am I what?" In lieu of his kiss, she's already forgotten what they'd been talking about before._

_Gloss chuckles and murmurs, "Happy."_

_And she just smiles and tucks her head back against his chest, tracing circles against his skin as she tells him, "Yes."_

_When she sleeps that night, she dreams only of him._

* * *

It doesn't take very long to coil the wire around the tree trunk. Before the hour passes, the group gathers closer together to discuss the next part of the plan, which is who is going to do what.

"We'll have to split into two groups," Beetee explains. "I'll need some of you to protect the tree and this end of the wire, and some of you to protect the person who's dragging the coil to the water." Then, turning to Katniss, Beetee holds out the heavy roll of wire and says, "That's your job, Katniss."

Katniss looks a little surprised at being singled out. She tentatively reaches forward to grasp the ends of the wire roll and furrows her brow.

Before she can ask why Beetee has decided to entrust one of the youngest people in the group with such an important task, Finnick crosses his arms and says, "I'll join Katniss and Johanna. The rest of you can here with Mags and Peeta." He glances over at Elara and the two District 1 Victors, and adds, "You two should be able to protect the others if need be."

Gloss only nods. At his side, his sister does the same. Not everyone is as accepting of these terms, though.

"I'm staying with Peeta," Katniss insists stubbornly, looking over at the blonde haired boy. She lifts her chin and glares at the others.

Finnick sighs, and opens his mouth to counteract her words, but it is Beetee's calm explanation that really does the trick. "You have the more dangerous task, Katniss. It's safer here at the tree."

Katniss cuts a sharp glance to Gloss and Cashmere, and she mutters, "Safer with two Careers lurking around?"

Gloss narrows his eyes at her and doesn't hesitate to argue, "What more do you want, Everdeen? You want us to swear our lives to you? We're here because we want to be here, not because we have some evil plan to kill you the first moment you're not looking."

Elara puts a hand on his arm and looks up at him. He just glowers over at Katniss and doesn't say another word, but the frustration that leaks from his body is palpable.

Katniss doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't say anything else on the matter either. Instead, Peeta steps forward and tells her, "I'll be okay, Katniss. We'll see each other soon."

It's a little strange, how Katniss pushes forward to throw her arms around her partner. She clings to him tightly, burying her face into his shoulder as if she thinks she'll never be able to hug him again. Elara remembers how she had questioned the girl's feelings back in the 74th Games. Back then, it had been fairly clear to her that Katniss hadn't really felt anything genuine for Peeta. She had just been playing the game to get sponsors and try to keep them both alive. That was over a year ago, now. She can still recall the way her and Gloss had watched the Games from the couch in the public viewing room. He had been just close enough to feel his warmth against her side, and his eyes had been vaguely amused when he had told her that he suspected there was more to Katniss and Peeta's relationship than she thought.

Looks like he's right this time around, for Katniss definitely loves that boy. Maybe she hadn't back in that cave, when she had nursed Peeta back to health and kissed him for sponsors, but…well, you'd have to be blind not to see the love that brims up in her eyes when she looks at him now. Elara doesn't feel that she should be surprised by this. She hadn't loved Gloss either, in the beginning. It had taken her years to realize that her feelings had grown, shifting from one state to another. It had taken him even longer.

"Can we please get this started?" Johanna complains, rolling her eyes at the show of affection coming from the star-crossed lovers. Elara bites her lip in amusement and throws a look over at Gloss, who snorts.

The group that is set to bring the coil of wire down to the water gathers their weapons. Katniss, Johanna, and Finnick are all capable fighters. They should have no problem defending themselves against any tribute who they might stumble across.

"Good luck," she tells Johanna as the woman swings her axe around her hand and waits for the other two.

Johanna, ever the stoic Victor that she is, just scoffs and responds, "…You too. Keep an eye on the jungle, just in case."

Elara nods and claps Johanna on the shoulder. As she does, Finnick glances over at her and smirks, "What, no heartfelt goodbye for me?"

Elara raises an eyebrow at him and shrugs, "Do you need one?"

Finnick smirks wider and leans down a bit, tapping his cheek as he does. His eyes twinkle at her in amusement, and Elara chuckles. Still, she humors him, leaning in to peck a kiss to his cheek. She should have known that Finnick would have other plans – namely, making Gloss jealous. Even now, in this arena, while they're enacting the biggest plan in the history of the Games, he's joking around.

Turning his head at the last moment, Elara's lips end up planting themselves on his own. It's an innocent kiss, of course – just a brush of their mouths before Elara pulls back and rolls her eyes at him. Of course, it doesn't matter how innocent it is. Not to Gloss.

With a growl, he grabs Elara's arm and drags her into his side, giving Finnick a glower. "You're hilarious, Odair," he snaps, curling his hand around Elara's waist possessively.

Elara pushes him away a little and sighs, "Calm down, Gloss…"

Finnick laughs. "Yeah, calm down, Gloss. No need to get your panties in a twist."

If anything, the joking words only aggravate the situation that much more, and Finnick steps back before the thoroughly bristling Career can inflict any form of pain on him. Elara drags Gloss back to the fallen tree and forces him to sit down. Cashmere, who had watched the situation play out with a dry expression, rolls her eyes at her brother but doesn't say anything.

Gloss just grumbles to himself, glowering at Finnick until the smaller group takes their leave and disappears into the jungle. Then, glancing over at the woman by his side, he mutters, "Kiss me."

Elara looks over at him with raised eyebrows. "…What?"

He purses his mouth, hesitates a moment, and then catches the side of her face to tilt her chin up. His lips gently touch hers. For a few seconds, he merely hangs there as if suspended by some otherworldly force…but then Elara begins to kiss him back, and he sinks deeper into her and sighs out in contentment.

"I won't have your potential last kiss be with that idiot," he mutters against her, and Elara sighs at him.

She opens her eyes and pulls away with a chuckle. "…Potential last kiss? That sounds dangerous."

He just stares at her carefully, his hazel eyes dark and solemn, and murmurs, "This is the Hunger Games. You never know what will happen."

She hums in agreement and slides closer to him, letting him tuck her against his body as they sit on the log. Inside, she knows he's right, but she dares not think about his words too deeply. She can only dare to hope that everything will work out…

Even though nothing in her life has really worked out, not even her relationship with the man by her side.

* * *

Elara is right about one thing, at least, and that is the fact that nothing in her life has ever worked out in the way she had envisioned it as a hopeful young girl. Hopeful – now that is a good way to describe her younger self. Growing up, her family had always been well enough off to afford to feed her and Amelia without an issue. Mr. and Mrs. Winston had been well known engineers in District 5, both working prized jobs at the Grid. Their paychecks had ensured that neither Elara nor Amelia needed to apply for tesserae throughout their youths. When Elara was Reaped at eighteen, it had been a fluke. Her name had been in the bowl only once. It was a twist of fate that had sent her into the Games, and nothing more.

From there, her life had only gone downhill. The naïve way she had lived prior to her Games was wiped away. No longer did she dream of pleasant things, or hope for a good future with a kind husband and a well-paying job. No longer did she apply herself in her studies or her education. Her dreams of working at the Grid like her parents vanished in a matter of weeks – the same amount of time it took for her to get through her Games and the horrors that sculpted her from that moment onward.

Her pleasant dreams turned to nightmares, and then to reality. Her parents were killed in a freak accident. Amelia, too young to care for herself at the tender age of ten, had to turn to Elara to provide the essentials. And Elara, the new Victor who was old enough to be used by the Capitol in such revolting ways, was hardly a prime candidate to look after her kid sister. She struggled to reconcile her two lives; to put her Capitol life on the back burner whenever she returned to District 5. She pushed it out of sight to spare her young sister, but it was harder to push it from her mind. She woke up screaming from her nightmares, leaving Amelia in a terrible state of fear. It was a cycle she could not break out of, until him.

Gloss showed her the ropes. He showed her out to navigate the system. How to put false masks on to protect the ones she loved. And in the long process of this, he somehow ended up shirking his way onto that narrow list of loved ones, until his name was synonymous with the very word. But – her connection to him had not been planned, either.

She doubts that there is anything in her current life that she would have asked for as a girl. Nothing that she would have daydreamed about during the long days of studying at the stellar school system in the heart of her district. She had wanted a simple life, but what she has received is anything but, and even when she thinks she knows what to expect from the roiling tides of it, she is always left blindsided by new problems.

This particular problem comes several hours later. The group has been waiting by the lightning tree for what seems like an age. Beetee has been carefully keeping track of the time, mindful of the fact that they have to leave the area before midnight brings in the massive lightning bolt. It would be extremely dangerous to remain here when it strikes, especially with the coil of wire conducting its energy towards the beach. The sparks of stray electricity could potentially harm them if they are too close to it when it comes, but neither can they leave quite yet. Beetee doesn't want any of the other tributes to figure out their plan and come to cut the wire.

And so, they wait.

Elara is dozing off against Gloss's shoulder when the first sign of trouble occurs. He has his body turned towards her, enveloping her with one arm to keep her pressed to his chest. Mags is on his other side, and seems to have taken the liberty of using his other shoulder for her own head. The sight of her brother being sandwiched by the two women is enough to make Cashmere smile. Gloss, as blunt and crass as he can sometimes be, doesn't seem to have a problem with the position. It's probably because Finnick and Johanna aren't here to tease him for going soft.

The atmosphere in the clearing is almost peaceful. Elara drifts in and out of sleep, and the warmth of Gloss's body is like a protective shield that makes her feel safe. She breathes him in quietly, her hand tucked into his as he holds it in his lap. She probably would have sunk into a deeper sleep has it not been for the sudden shout that tears through the silence and steals all sense of peace from the air.

Immediately, Gloss tenses. The others reach for their weapons, even though the shout had not been close by. It had been a familiar voice.

Any sleepiness that Elara might have felt before disappears. She sits up, pushing herself away from Gloss's chest to peer into the murky jungle. It is pitch black beyond the clearing. It must be nearing midnight by now; it feels like they've been here for hours now.

"That sounded like Johanna," Cashmere says, swinging her sword from its sheath as if she expects someone to come charging through the underbrush at them any moment now. Gloss stands up to stand beside his sister, and together they form a silent pair of sentinels as they look into the trees.

Peeta furrows his brow in worry and murmurs, "Katniss is with her…" He stands there in the middle of the clearing, shoulders tense and eyes alert, hands fisted at his sides.

Elara turns to look at Mags. The old woman gives her a solemn glance and stands up. Her movements are shaky with age and the exhaustion of being in this environment for such a long period of time, and Elara quickly moves to her side to help her. Mags sends her a thankful smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She's worried, too.

"…Finnick will be alright, Mags," Elara whispers. "He's strong."

The woman just nods, though it doesn't seem like Elara's words have made her feel much better. She pats her hand in an almost idle manner, and stares off into the distance silently.

They all just stand there for a long moment, unsure what they should do. It's almost midnight and they should be leaving the area soon, but they hadn't anticipated that they might be walking into a trap. Johanna's panicked shout has turned them all tense with worry. What if one of the other tributes had realized their plan and is trying to sabotage it even now?

When another familiar voice sounds in the distance, the thin atmosphere crumbles into dust.

"Katniss!" Peeta gasps, hearing the painful sound of her voice. He doesn't even hesitate before he rushes headlong into the jungle, not waiting around to see if anyone follows. His move shatters what is left of the peace, and sends them all into a frenzy.

Gloss curses loudly and takes a step for the jungle to pursue Peeta. But then he stops, turns to stare at Elara, and firmly orders, "Stay with the others, Elara." She opens her mouth to argue, but he cuts her off with a fierce, "Do as I say."

Cashmere frowns. "I'm not letting you go by yourself," she tells him, eyeing him sharply.

He grits his teeth. "You need to protect them – "

"I go where you go," she growls. "I'm not gonna let you get yourself killed. Elara, lead the others to the beach. Now come on, Gloss."

She grabs his arm and heaves him forward. This time, he doesn't stop to complain. There is no time.

Elara feels her heart shake in her chest as she watches the siblings disappear into the jungle. This wasn't what they had planned, but she can't stop them now. Katniss's survival is imperative. If she doesn't make it out of the arena, then it is all for nothing. So instead of lingering, she just grasps Mags's arm and turns to Beetee.

"It's almost midnight. We have to leave anyway," he murmurs, looking a bit shaken himself. He strides over to her and takes out the knife that's been at his side since the start of the Games. Elara doubts he's taken it off of his belt even once. They are surely not the most competent pair, but there's nothing for it.

The three of them make their way into the jungle. Beetee leads the way. Elara helps Mags, but the trek is far slower than she would have liked. Mags isn't able to navigate the undergrowth quickly, and Elara isn't sure she's strong enough to carry the woman on her back.

The further into the jungle they get, the more they can hear what sounds to be some sort of fight going on in the distance. There's a general ruckus that seems to echo through the trees, and even though Elara can't tell who is making the noise, her heart blossoms with a fear unlike anything she's ever felt. Her friends' lives are at stake. The man she loves might not live to see another day. She swallows at the thought and pushes forward, nearly pulling Mags behind her in her haste.

"Come on, Mags," she says, voice tight with worry. She feels a little guilty at the forceful way she maneuvers her, but it's either this or be killed.

She isn't sure how far they get. They could have been running through the underbrush for minutes or hours. It's all the same to her. Time seems to drag on and slip by at once, and it is only the sight of Beetee's figure in front of her that forces her to keep moving. He looks back every other moment to make sure they're still there, his eyes tight with concern. But it isn't until a yell tears through the silence that his concern doubles.

Elara's breath stutters to a halt. She turns wide eyes to the jungle, scanning the trees in earnest as the scream comes to a rippling end. It's full of pain – pain like no other – and it makes her lose all sense of herself as she drops her arms from Mags's body and inhales a deep, choking breath.

"That's Gloss – " she babbles, "Gloss – "

Beetee shouts her name as she jolts away from them, running into the jungle and abandoning them without a second thought. She vaguely hears his voice calling after her, thick with anxious worry and fear, but it is nothing like the fear that threatens to keel her over where she stands. She doesn't turn back. She can't.

"GLOSS!" she shouts, voice shredded.

She tears through the jungle, arms up to shield her face from the low hanging ferns that cloud her vision – until at last she finds him.

She doesn't know how. It's pitch black in the jungle. Not even the fabricated moon is able to shine its light here. But – she hears the ragged sound of breathing and follows it, and when her vision adjusts to the sight of his prone body lying in the dirt not far away, she skids to a stop and throws herself down beside him.

"Gloss – oh God, Gloss," she frets, hands fluttering over him. His face is creased with pain. When he hears her voice, he groans and tries to sit up, but the movement only makes him cuss loudly and sink back to the ground.

"You shouldn't be here," he says between gritted teeth. Turning painful eyes to her, he heaves, "Elara, you have to leave. Get away from here – "

"I'm not leaving you," she interrupts, kneeling over him and scanning the trees. There is no one else around. Whoever did this to him must have had another target to deal with first.

"Fuck Elara," he growls, "leave already! GET OUT OF HERE!"

She almost flinches at the way he yells at her. Almost.

Pursing her lips, she shakes her head. "Not without you," she says stubbornly.

He impatiently bites, "I can't move. My leg is broken." Then, swallowing around the pain that nearly captures him whole, he groans, "You have to leave. You need to find the others – "

"Where's Cashmere?" she asks quickly, pressing her hand to his cheek and turning him to face her.

He just shakes his head and mutters, "Gone. She went after Enobaria. I couldn't find Peeta."

Elara breathes out and then nearly shouts when the arena suddenly sparks to life like a live wire, the whole forcefield shimmering with energy. She turns her head up to peer at it through the tangle of leaves and branches above, and frowns. It looks almost as though the entire thing is falling apart…and when she sees a large chunk of it fall with a resounding crash a minute later, she realizes that it is. They don't have much time.

With determined movements, she reaches for one of her knives and the grabs Gloss's forearm tightly. He thrashes against her for a moment and harshly says, "It's useless, Elara. We're too far away from the others."

Inside, she knows he's right, but she still cuts the tracker from his arm anyway. He bites back the pain as the blade sinks into his flesh. She digs it out and turns to her own arm. Gloss forces himself to sit up, though he is barely able to. His leg is shattered and the pain that tears through him is enough to blind him.

"Elara, please," he begs. He's never begged in his life, but he doesn't hesitate to do it now. "Leave me. It's your only chance. Please."

She rips her tracker out as if she doesn't even hear him. He just doesn't understand. She can't leave him. She doesn't think it's physically possible for her to take even one step away from him right now.

"Gloss, don't ask me to do that," she tells him, and feels like she might actually cry. Her eyes sting with tears. Her voice is tight with fear. "I can't leave you. I won't."

She bites her lip hard enough to taste blood, grasping his hand tightly as she kneels over him. She thinks it's a terrible thing, this silent love that breaches up within her. She thinks that, despite having thought that this plan was their best bet, everything is suddenly falling to ruin. Loving him has gotten her into this mess in the first place. Maybe love is not something that she can ever obtain. It is a constellation that shines just out of reach, twinkling at her from far away and laughing at her attempts to pluck it down from the sky.

Gloss clutches her tightly and heaves her against him. The movement jostles his leg and makes pain sear through him, but he only buries his face against her neck and whispers, "Stubborn woman."

He's crying. She's seen him cry before, but never like this. He fully thinks that he's about to die. That they both are, and that this is the only chance he'll get to tell her how he really feels. His heart has been locked shut for years now, and he had thought he had thrown the key away long before, but he knows that he's wrong as he holds her close and waits for death. She has his heart. She's always had it, even when he hadn't realized it.

Elara can't answer him. The words are on the tip of her tongue, but for some reason she can't give them voice. Her mind is a shredded mess; her thoughts spiraling out of control as the arena falls around them. Wires spark like miniature lightning bolts, tearing through the air. Fire lights the darkness, but they do not like what they see. And, as a nearby tree moans and begins to fall towards them, Elara thinks that is she has to die, she'd rather die with him, in his arms, pressed into the warmth of his body.

She doesn't know, then, that such a death is out of her reach, just as love itself has always been one step away from her. For as the sky falls around them and drags them into the fire, their story is not yet finished. Their lives are not yet being called in.

The world burns, and them along with it.


	49. In sinking into Love's eternal care,

**A/N: Just a quick warning so that I can claim to be a responsible authoress: just be aware that the next few chapters will have some very dark and gruesome scenes in them.**

* * *

**Chapter Forty Nine | In sinking into Love's eternal care,**

"_Take him and cut him out in little stars,_

_And he will make the face of heaven so fine_

_That all the world will be in love with night_

_And pay no worship to the garish sun."_

_3.2, 22-25 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Gloss told her once that looking up at the night sky in District 1 is like looking into clear crystal glass. On the edge of the city with the sleepless lights at your back, you can see the planets twinkling down at you from high above. The stars are like pinpricks of glistening light. It's like the universe is laid out for your perusal, and at any moment, you could reach out your hand and fully expect to be able to pluck a star from the heavens themselves._

_It's not like that, in District 5. A rainy fog often hides the stars from view. The prettiest sight in the night sky isn't the clear quality of the universe stretched out before you, but rather the smoky essence of the moon as its beams slowly shift through the clouds and turns the sky into a wayward canvas of wispy fog._

_Elara often wonders what it would be like, to go to the desert's edge and see the stars flicker with such transparency. She finds herself wondering that often, when she's in District 5 and her nightmares keep her awake at night._

_Amelia is sleeping. Elara is glad for that. Sometimes, her dreams seem like reality, and she wakes up screaming and sobbing and thrashing, and Amelia wakes up too because how could she not? The entire neighborhood is probably awoken on those nights. That is the only time that Elara is thankful for this large house and the fact that she only has one neighbor. _

_When she was a new Victor and Amelia was still a ten year old child with no parents, anymore, to look after her with the care that she required, the nightmares would make her younger sister cry. She would tumble into Elara's room, clutching her stuffed rabbit so tightly that her knuckles would be blanched white, and she'd cry in the doorway until Elara realized that she was only dreaming and that she was safe at home and not in the arena. In the beginning, Amelia would throw herself into Elara's bed and try to wake her up, but that was before Elara's nightmares were vicious and bloody, and after a few weeks she had to sit Amelia down and tell her not to approach her when she was dreaming, because she didn't want to hurt her by accident._

_It hadn't been easy, looking after her kid sister. Elara had only been eighteen when their parents were killed. On top of that, her new status in the Capitol was so hectic and terrible that stepping into her mother's shoes had been nearly impossible. Sometimes she looks back on those initial years and wonders how on earth Amelia had been able to handle her. She had been a total wreck._

_They never do tell you what sort of life a Victor lives. There had only been one Victor in District 5 when Elara was growing up. Harley kept to himself, only stepping out into town to buy groceries or other necessities. He was always a hermit who shut himself away, to such an extent that the rest of the district hardly even remembered that he existed half the time. _

_District 5 had never caused trouble for the Capitol, or went against them, or did anything to incite the president's rage. When Elara became a Victor and realized what the Capitol wanted from her, she had been utterly shocked. Though she had never been naïve, she hadn't realized just how treacherous the society she was now a part of really was._

_If it hadn't been for Gloss, she doubts she would have been able to make it through with all her sanity. His entrance into her life had been unexpected and unplanned. His proposition had been conflicting. His gentleness that first night had been surprising. And – the undefined but startlingly beautiful relationship that they have built over the years since then has been more than she would have ever thought it would be._

_She sighs and tips back the can of beer she's holding, leaning against the porch steps as she looks up at the night sky. It had rained earlier that day, and a thick fog covers the stars and even the moon, tonight. The barest wisps of light trickle through the canopy of mist. It is hauntingly lovely, especially when the wind pushes the clouds and fog away and the moon is able to peer out in all its splendor for several brief moments before it is hidden again._

_Gloss told her that it never rains in District 1. At some times of the year, the night is somewhat chilly, but it is usually warm and pleasant, and there is rarely any fog to hide the night sky from view. She wonders what it would be like, to live in a place where rain doesn't exist. To be a part of a world full of sand and stars._

_Sometimes, she thinks it's dangerous to have those kinds of thoughts, but…she's been having them more and more lately. She can't help it. She misses him so much that it's like a physical wound that tears through her chest and turns her breathing into a shallow, ragged mess. On nights where she feels this peculiar pain so clearly, she finds herself wondering if he feels it too._

_She's in the middle of taking another sip of beer when the front door opens, and Amelia steps out. Elara jumps a little, surprised by the sudden presence of her sister, and turns to her. They stare at each other for a long moment, and then Amelia lowers herself onto the step beside Elara silently. She pulls the thick blanket she's got covering her body and glances down at the other beer beside Elara's hip._

"_Are you gonna give me one?" she asks, and Elara snorts._

"_You're seventeen," she responds. Then, glancing over at her younger sister, Elara pauses before handing her the beer and saying, "I'm not a very good guardian."_

_Amelia hums in agreement as she opens the can and clinks it against Elara's before taking a sip. She makes a face at the bitter taste of it but it doesn't stop her from taking another one after a moment._

"_Why aren't you sleeping?" Elara asks after a few minutes, looking back up at the sky._

_Amelia shrugs. She traces the rim of the can, pulls her blanket higher over her shoulders, and murmurs, "Dunno. Saw you were up, so I thought I'd join you." At the look Elara gives her, Amelia quickly adds, "I don't have school tomorrow!"_

_The exclamation makes Elara laugh. She nudges her younger sister with a smile and shakes her head. "As if I could stop you even if you did. I know what battles to fight by now."_

_Her sister laughs too, but their amusement isn't the clear and happy kind; it's darker than that, because it is doused with the knowledge that Elara shouldn't even have to fight those battles. Those are battles that their parents should be a part of, not her. Their laughter fades away with the heaviness of that thought, and it drags away any potential happiness along with it._

_They fall silent again. Elara studies the clouds above, eyes alighting on the wispy fog and the moon's brief appearances. Amelia turns her gaze there too, and together they just sit and watch the heavens._

_And then…_

"_Do you miss him?" Amelia whispers, not taking her gaze away from the sky._

_Elara doesn't, either, when she breathes, "…Yes."_

_And even though she doesn't say it out loud, it's clear what she is thinking. She's thinking that she'll always miss him. She's thinking that she'll probably miss him until the day she dies, because this is the life that is laid out for them. These long stretches of separation. These sleepless nights where solitude is her only company._

_Amelia doesn't say anything more, and neither does Elara._

* * *

When Gloss opens his eyes next, he thinks he's dreaming. The pain he had remembered feeling from his broken leg is all but gone. It is as if he is floating on a cloud, weightless and efflorescent, without worry or thought. His eyes flutter against the bright light that greets him and he furrows his brow to block it out, wondering if this is the light that is supposed to greet a person when they die. The thought of death doesn't frighten him as much as it did before. He can't think of a single reason why it should.

He turns his head, feeling the scratchy fabric of a pillow beneath his cheek. He inhales deeply and hums a bit as he raises his arms in a stretch. He doesn't feel dead, but then again, he isn't entirely sure what death is supposed to feel like. He is unafraid as he opens his eyes fully, but that changes soon enough.

After all, when his eyes finally adjust to the brightness, it is not the light of death's pure embrace that washes over him. No. He is instead lying in a hospital bed, and when he catches sight of the stark white walls and the heart monitor beside his bed, he frowns.

He cannot fully describe the intensity of his emotions then. His heart suddenly pushes against his chest with an abrupt frenzy, and his veins pump with fear and adrenaline. It is with a great heave of muscle that he forces himself up, much to the dismay of his body as the pain quickly filters back into him. It is a subtle sort of pain, drenched with a strange softness that could only come from painkillers or morphling, and he groans around it as he presses his back into the headboard.

He feels his broken leg pulsate angrily from within the thin cast he now sees protecting it. The starchy blanket is thrown off so that he can get a better look at his injuries, and in a burst of harried energy, he rips out the tube that is pumping nutrients into his bloodstream. His leg is strapped to the mattress, presumably to keep him from upsetting the broken bone by thrashing around. Other than that, his skin is utterly flawless. He feels another burst of energy upset him when he realizes that there is no sign of the bruised knuckles he'd sported before, or the cuts and scratches that had covered his body in the arena, or even the broken nails and calloused fingers caused from wielding his weapons once again.

It is this drastic perfection that grips him more than anything. He can't imagine that District 13 would bother polishing his nails or waste energy on healing all of his superficial scratches. It seems like a silly thing for a group of rebels to do, when they are busy fighting for their cause.

The realization that this brings forth is like a bucket of frigid water. His heart beats like the wings of a hummingbird, drumming against his chest with such speed that the monitor beside his bed wails in response, and Gloss cringes back at the way the sound tears through the lingering stillness of the room. He cringes again when the door at the other end of said room opens.

Two men wearing lab coats enter the room, no doubt alerted by the noise of the heart monitor. One of them is holding a clipboard that has several papers attached to its surface. He follows the other man as if he is a subordinate of sorts, peering at Gloss with vague, clinical curiosity as they approach the bed.

Gloss immediately pulls his lips back into a fierce scowl and demands, "Where am I?"

The question would have been impressively intimidating, if his voice doesn't shake with such weakness. As it is, it comes out scratchy and unused, as if he hasn't spoken aloud in weeks and his vocal chords have rather forgotten how to make proper sound. The doctors glance at each other silently, as if he is little more than an experiment, and he grits his teeth.

"We're glad to see you up, Mr. Augustine," the one nearer to the bed says, hands stuffed casually into his lab coat pockets. He tilts his head and muses, "It took less time than we thought it would. Make a note of that, Mortenson."

The man holding the clipboard hums and draws out a pen from his breast pocket, clicking it open. Gloss can hear the scratch of his writing as he mumbles, "High density body mass…took only twenty minutes for patient to wake after clearing the sedatives from his IV."

Upon hearing these words, Gloss jolts back with a growled, "Sedatives?" He tries to move his leg, but it is strapped too firmly to the bed.

The head doctor gives him a cold smile and says, "You had a rather difficult break in your upper femur. It was necessary to give you plenty of time to heal. Our technology stitched the bone back together in a matter of hours, but your body needed a chance to heal any lingering fragility."

Gloss frowns at this, fists clenched into the starchy blankets, and opens his mouth to demand more answers. But he is interrupted when the head doctor turns to his colleague and says, "Check his blood pressure and pulse, would you Mortenson? And reattach his IV."

Mortenson steps forward to follow the head doctor's instructions, but when he reaches out to do so, the Victor grabs his hand in a crushing grip. He fists his other hand into the man's lab coat and drags him closer with a heave of suppressed strength. The forceful maneuver makes the man jerk a bit in shock, having clearly not expected to be manhandled in such a way by his own patient.

Gloss bites out, "How long was I out? When did the Games end?"

Days? Weeks? Is Elara here, or is she safe in District 13? Inside, he already knows the answer to that. She was with him as the arena fell in pieces around them. She hadn't left his side even when he had yelled at her to do just that. Her stubborn tenacity has signed her up for capture by the Capitol, and it doesn't even matter that she had cut the trackers from their arms. If he is here, then the chances are that so is she.

The head doctor pauses, and then sighs, "It's been several days, Mr. Augustine. Mortenson, perhaps more sedative for now. The president wants our patient in perfect condition."

The words feel like a slap in the face. Gloss physically recoils from them, as if they are poisoned things that curl with smoke and smog. He tries to bat Mortenson away when he drives the IV back into his forearm, but he's too weak to fight off the oncoming press of morphling that immediately invades his system. It is like a wall that blindsides him before he has the chance to protect himself against it, and it crashes against him with too much strength to overpower the forceful way it drags him down into the darkness.

He thinks he mumbles, 'no, no' as he goes, but he can't be sure. All he is sure of is the oppressing weight of that darkness bearing down on him from all sides, until he loses sight of the brightness of the room and the two doctors that are apparently preparing him for whatever is to come.

* * *

Elara thought she knew what fear was. The Hunger Games are rife with it, and she's been in the arena twice now. She's faced down mutts, and the inhumanness of killing, and the nightmares that have plagued her for years. She's faced the void of hotel rooms, the terrifying surrender that accompanies them, and the revolting lust of her clients. She's been used for years now, in one way or another.

She remembers the thick fear of her first Reaping, and the way it had been mixed with shock. She had appeared almost indifferent with it as she had walked up to the stage in front of the gray Justice building, but inside her body was screaming with horror and the cold chill of dread. She didn't have another peaceful sleep for months after that day, not until Gloss came hurtling into her life and soothed the nightmares with his presence alone.

She remembers her first official night as Snow's prostitute. Her fingers shook when she had opened the hotel room door. She had looked back at the Peacekeeper who had led her there, perhaps hoping for some semblance of humanity to drive away the terror, but had seen only the pale reflection of her own face in the black visor of his helmet. She had not found any compassion or mercy in that room, on that night or any other.

She remembers finding out that both her parents had died in that freak accident. The guilt of knowing that she had been the cause of it for saying no to President Snow. The grief that she would never see them again. The fear that she felt when she had realized that she'd have to become a mother of sorts to her kid sister, who wasn't old enough to take care of herself. That had been the worst of it all, in a way; knowing that she was the only one left that Amelia had, while simultaneously knowing that she was the least qualified person for the job.

The fear of receiving those thick manila envelopes every few months. The fear of reading who her clients would be, and knowing that she couldn't say no again unless she wanted to bury her sister, next. The fear never lessened even after years of walking to those hotel rooms and shedding what humanity she had left. Fear is something she is very familiar with. She practically lives in it.

And yet…

She is not sure she's ever felt it quite so completely before.

Oh, it is not a selfish fear that drives through her now. She is in quite a state already, but she is not afraid for herself. She is afraid because she doesn't know where Gloss is, or if he's even alive. Or where Cashmere went, or if Amelia made it safely to District 13, or if the rebels have succeeded in saving the others or if they failed. The others – her friends. Johanna. Beetee. Finnick. Peeta. Katniss. She doesn't know anything, and that is the worst thing of all. A fear of the unknown is often the most potent.

She's been in this place for days. Time drags by. She'd tried to count the passage of it at first, but without the sight of the sun or any sign of a clock, it's been near impossible to truly know how long she's been down here, stuck in this cell with no way out. She doesn't know if she's alone here or not. Doesn't know if the cell next to hers is occupied. Doesn't know what they plan on doing with her. She's been entirely alone for what seems like an age. The only company she has so far had is when the guards come to give her water and meals, both of which are foul things that she can barely stomach.

She hates it here in this dark place, but when they do finally come for her, she wishes they had forgotten she is there at all.

"Where are you taking me?" she hoarsely demands, but her weak protests fall against the Peacekeeper guards like water might rush through a river. It hardly stops them from grabbing her arms and shoving her down the dank hallway. She nearly stumbles at their rough movements. She probably would have fallen, had their grip not been so hard. The guards heave her back up and force her forward, until she is lost in a maze of other cells and has no idea which one had been hers.

They toss her into a different room, which is barred like the last, and leave her to wallow in it for some time before they appear to remember that she is there. This time, when they come for her, it is not a group of guards waiting to forcefully direct her, but two men dressed in lab coats.

Elara looks up at them when they enter the small room. She isn't sure what it is that makes her heart weaken at the sight of them – perhaps it is the way their cold eyes casually take her in, as if she is little more than a lab rat or an experiment gone awry. All she knows is that when they shut the door behind them and begin walking towards her, she struggles against them with such ferocity that it actually seems to take them by surprise.

"Be still," one of them snaps at her, and grabs the back of her neck. The way he pinches at it makes her cringe, but the way he forces her into a rickety old chair and starts tying her wrists down to it is even worse.

"What do you want?" she demands. She keeps struggling, but it's useless. The other man just holds her down until both her wrists and ankles are tied to the chair, and she can't get up.

Then, stepping back, the man who had grabbed her neck and pushed her down clicks his tongue and tells her, "We want to know all about the rebel plan and what part you played in it."

Elara stares at him. Then, she laughs. She laughs until the other man twists his fingers into her hair and roughly drags her head back, angrily closing his hand around her neck with a tight grasp. He forces her to stop laughing. In fact, he forces her to stop breathing entirely.

"You can laugh if you want," he whispers into her ear, voice dark and thunderous, "but we'll get answers out of you eventually." Elara looks at him from the corner of her eye, and he adds, "There are many ways to make someone talk."

He squeezes her neck until her face is red and her vision flickers with suffocating darkness, and then he releases her and watches her lean forward and gasp deep lungfuls of air.

Around her gasping, Elara rattles, "Go on, then."

And even though her voice is brave, the rest of her is not. She is so afraid that her fingers are shaking against the wooden arms of the chair, and the cloying sensation of fear is in this moment the only thing she knows.


	50. It lifts me up while making me despair

**Chapter Fifty | It lifts me up while making me despair.**

"_Death lies on her like an untimely frost_

_Upon the sweetest flower of all the field."_

_4.5, 28-28 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_On the day of her Reaping, Elara Winston wore red. There hadn't been any message behind it – no meaning to the color or purpose of choice. She had merely opened her closet that morning, figured she hadn't worn that dress in a while, and thought it was a shame._

_This red dress had been a pretty but modest creation, made from a soft worn cotton that had many previous owners before her. Because it had been a hand-me-down, the color had faded somewhat from its original crimson to a duller but no less vibrant shade. It fell to mid-shin, was long sleeved, and pressed tightly around her waist. Against her eighteen year old self, the dress made her look more woman than child, which had been a source of excitement for her because she had been a late bloomer in that regard._

_When she had walked down the stairs that morning, her father had given her a firm look from over his newspaper. It was a glance that was caught between pride and wariness. Pride that his daughter had become a pretty young woman, and wariness for the very same reason. Time is a strange thing to a parent – a font of happiness and sorrow all in one._

"_Elara," her mother had smiled. Unlike her father, her mother's eyes had been cheerful. She had taken Elara's hand and spun her around on the kitchen tiles with a laugh, and had wondered, "When did my little girl get so beautiful?"_

_Even though it was Reaping day, none of them were concerned. They lived just outside the Grid, one of the nicest neighborhoods in District 5. Her engineer parents had great jobs with great salaries and they could afford everything they needed. Elara's name was only in the bowl once, because it was mandatory for every child between the ages of 12 and 18 to take part in the Reaping. But – she hadn't had to sign up for tesserae and because it was her last year in the Reaping, her parents were not worried for her at all._

_The odds, as they say, were in her favor._

"_You're pretty, Lara," Amelia, ten years old at the time, had told her from the kitchen table. She was yet too young to be in the Reaping. Safe for another two years. Not that anyone was very worried for her, either. There were many families in District 5 who were not as well off as the Winstons. The division between middle class and outright poverty was stark here. Hundreds of kids had their names in the bowl, dozens of times._

_Elara affectionately mussed up her younger sister's hair as she sat down beside her. Amelia gave a squawking sound that made Elara laugh and wryly ask, "Are you a bird today?"_

_Amelia had stuck her nose into the air, stubborn even back then, and had told her in a very serious voice that she was not._

_When it was time to leave for the town square, the Winston family stepped outside, locked up the door behind them, and began to head to the bus station. From her studies, Elara had learned that not every district was as big as hers, and that some of them didn't even have public transportation and people had to walk everywhere. She couldn't imagine having to walk ten miles to school and back every day with her heavy bookbag weighing her down._

_Her father had tapped his identification card against the electronic payment station just beside the door of the bus, and the family went to find a space on the already crowded vehicle. It had been a normal day, all in all. Every Reaping had been fairly normal, if not somewhat despondent. Even though the Winston family was well-off, they weren't snobs. But – there is a certain disregard for your own safety when you are overly comfortable in your lifestyle. An unfounded assumption that nothing will alter the normalcy of the life that you have lived for as long as you can remember._

_It is the most harrowing thing of all, this alteration. Even more potent than the tumultuous change itself is the way it sweeps away the foundations that you have built your life upon – those precarious things, built brick by brick on a faulty line that was never meant to remain unchanged, only you did not know it until the change arrived._

_When it did arrive, no one had been prepared for it._

_The town hall had been bustling with Peacekeepers and citizens when the Winstons got off the bus. As always, the Justice building had been thoroughly cleaned for the occasion. The layers of dust and grime had been washed off of the grey stone, and blue mountain laurels had been carefully docketed and braided together to form pretty garlands. They had hung from the windows of the building and were placed over the edges of the stage. The entire scene had been vivid to Elara. It is the only day of the year that such accessories are created, with the exception of weddings and naming day ceremonies, and the purpose of it is obvious: the mayor of District 5 had clearly wanted to ensure that the cameramen were able to capture the best side of District 5 – if ever there was such a thing._

_Elara's mother and father had kissed her cheeks and left her in line to have her blood drawn. Amelia, who had been forced into a bright yellow dress that Elara used to wear, had waved at her before being herded off with their parents. Even though she had only been ten years old, the girl's eyes had been very serious as she glanced back at her older sister. Even then, Amelia knew what that day meant. Not even young children are naïve to the Hunger Games._

_Still, Elara hadn't been concerned. She had her blood drawn and had gone off to the section where the eighteen year old girls were waiting. One of her school friends had seen her and hooked their arms together with a giggle, nodding her head towards the boy's section where the most popular boy in school had been standing with his friends. Elara remembers laughingly telling her friend to stop ogling him, but she had turned to admire the boy with a singularly hypocritical air even as she did._

_She had been very close with those girls, from the time that she was a toddler hanging off her mother's legs to the moment her name was called over the loudspeaker of the 67_ _th_ _ Hunger Games' Reaping._

_It is a strange thing, how easily friendships fall away when the foundations of your life begin to shake. You realize with startling precision what friendship truly means, and how strong it really is, when the change arrives._

_When the escort for District 5 had spun her fingers into the bowl and plucked a paper from the hundreds of others – when she had unrolled it and leaned into the microphone to read off the name that was written in bold ink – when the name that sprang from her lips was the very name that Elara Winston was graced with…_

_Her friends turned to stare at her, and the one that she had known since before she could say her first word cautiously unhooked her arm and stepped back as if Elara had suddenly caught an incurable disease. In a way, perhaps she had. There was no way that she could win the Hunger Gamers and everyone knew it._

_The world had shifted in such a way that, in the briefest span of a single moment, everything she thought she knew had been irrevocably altered. Her vision narrowed down, and her senses dulled, and all she could hear was her name being repeated over and over again in her head, even though the escort had only said it once. Just – once. That's all it took for those foundations to fall; for the cornerstones to crack. And she hadn't realized until then, just how shaky the soil had been beneath those foundations. But it was shaky, and on the verge of shattering, for it had only taken five syllables to knock them out of place._

_Elara Winston._

_She had gingerly made her way through the crowd. People parted for her like a sea. She hadn't looked at any of their faces – her eyes had been trained to the blue mountain laurels that dripped over the edge of the stage like delicate droplets of water, frozen in time and space against grey stone. She had felt that way too. Frozen._

_No one had clapped. No one had made a single sound at all. It was normal. District 5 was never as poor as the outer districts, but they had never approved of the Hunger Games either. No one ever clapped for the tributes that were called on Reaping day, but for some reason, the silence felt particular overpowering on that one._

_She had ascended the steps of the stage and had gone to stand beside the escort. She had looked out into the crowd of people that spanned the large courtyard below her. Her eyes warily searched the faces in hopes of locating her family, but for some strange reason, they landed on that boy from her class – the popular one, that her friends all fawned over and that she also admired every once in a while, when she wasn't overly distracted by her studies. She hadn't known why she had stared at him instead of looking for a more familiar face. Perhaps it was because she knew then, in some subconscious and deep part of herself, that every single dream she had ever had would never come to fruition._

_She would never get married, or have children, or get a job in the Grid, or become a star engineer of District 5. She would never fall in love or find out what it feels like to have a man hold her as if she was the most beautiful creature in existence. And – it hadn't even been that boy that she had wanted to have all of that with. That boy had merely been a reminder, then, that all of these dreams were destined to fail, because she had known as she stood there on the stage that she would not be alive in a month's time._

_It is a strange concept, death. You think that you are invincible to its grasp – that you are above the call of it. You think you will live forever, always as you are, without ever growing old or changing anything at all – until one day you look at yourself in the mirror and you see the faint shadow of its presence clinging to your face; and your eyes look older and your cheeks have lost their youth and there is something harrowing about you that had not been there before, the last time you had seen yourself._

_When Elara caught sight of her reflection in the train's window later that night, after she had said goodbye to her parents and to Amelia and to the life she had built on those shaky foundations that she hadn't realized were already cracked –_

_She had seen that shadow even then, and though she had only been eighteen and should have been immune to the weary passage of time's cold fingers upon her youthful brow, she saw death flicker behind her eyes, and she understood, suddenly, why they call that day the Reaping._

_It isn't because the tributes are reaped as one might reap a harvest from a field; it is because she had suddenly come face to face with Death's Reaper, and he had smiled upon her._

* * *

Before this moment, Elara had not known the meaning of pain. She thought pain was a transient thing made from lingering aches and the dull ring of inhuman acts. It was being hurt by clients. It was rape and brutality. This is not the same.

It is not the same at all.

* * *

The chair in the center of her new cell already has blood stains on it. The crimson lifeforce soaks into the wood with a vengeance. She did not know that a person could bleed so much.

"Hold her down," one of the men says. There are three of them today. One lingers behind her, pressing her shoulders down as she weakly struggles. Another waits off to the side by a small table that boasts a range of iron devices, half of which have already been bloodied. The last stands before her, and the calm expression he wears is almost as terrifying as the way he occasionally smiles – just the smallest quirk of his mouth, as if she amuses him somehow. Perhaps her struggles are humorous to him. Perhaps he just enjoys the sight of blood.

"Tell me what you know," the man drawls as he takes a knife and drags the tip into her bicep. Elara doesn't stop struggling even as he draws a red line down her arm, from shoulder to elbow. The droplets of blood that flows over her skin are like the tears that she can't push back. They cut down her cheeks before she can stop them, and leave tracks through the accumulated grime that sticks to her skin.

She whimpers, but remains silent. Telling them what they want to hear is as good as a death sentence. It doesn't matter that they have reassured her again and again that she will be unharmed if she cooperates. This is the Capitol, and Elara Winston is not stupid. They are just looking for a reason to kill her.

She gasps, "Go to hell," but as the tip of the knife digs deeper and continues down to her wrist, she thinks that they're already in it.

* * *

They beat her. Kick her until she doesn't have any breath left in her body, and she heaves silently on the ground silently suffocating because her lungs don't want to work. Her fingers are crusted over with blood. Her nails are busted, fingertips cracked and bruised from the constant way she claws at the stone below her head and cries into it. She cries almost nonstop in the beginning. It makes her feel pathetic, so she tries to remain as silent as possible even as her throat closes up and her sobs make her sound like some wild, wounded thing.

After a while, she seems to run out of tears. It is like her body becomes a dry desert, and even when her face crumbles with pain and fear, the tears do not come. She thinks she should be happy about that, but to be honest, the only emotion she can feel is hopelessness.

* * *

"You could end this right now," one of the men says as he punches her hard in the abdomen.

Her breath rattles out of her. She starts to fall, only for the man to grab a fistful of her shirt and heave her back up. She's on her feet for all of two seconds before he punches her again, and this time, he lets her fall.

She hits the ground hard.

"Just tell us if you knew about the rebel plan. Tell us what the next part of it is, and we'll let you go," he coos, nudging her leg with his boot.

When she doesn't respond, he pulls his foot back and digs it into her stomach. She whimpers.

"…I don't know," she heaves, and doesn't say anything more.

* * *

They inject her with something that makes her veins feel like they're on fire. She burns from the inside out, crippled on the floor, gasping with agony. She feels like her skin is melting. Like the fire is consuming her bones and sinew and muscle, rearing through her head and pounding in her skull.

But she's happy for it, because –

She can surrender to the darkness and forget, for a time, that her entire world has been irrevocably altered.

* * *

After a while, she starts to hear other screams. The first one she notices is starkly familiar to her. It blasts through the prison while she's trying to sleep, curled up in the corner with her head in her arms. When she hears it, she bolts up with a frenzy of fear, pushing her back against the wall and staring with wide eyes at the door, as if she thinks it's about to burst open. They come for her at odd times. She never knows when the next round of torture will be.

When the door doesn't open, she slowly relaxes. Her relief lasts for only a few scant moments, though, until she hears Johanna's agonized voice once more, and the reality of the situation trickles through her.

She is not alone after all. District 13 had not been able to get everyone. Apparently, they had left Johanna to the whims of the Capitol. A part of her is horrified at this; the other part, the darker part, is viciously pleased that she doesn't have to go through this by herself.

She thinks it's awful of her to think that way, but as she lays her head back down and turns her face into her elbow, shaking so fiercely that she feels she might break apart, she decides that there's nothing she can do about it anyhow.

* * *

"Tell us what you know!" The man angrily holds her wrist down and bends the fragile bone. It doesn't snap, yet.

She wails, "I don't know. I don't know."

He scowls.

"Tell us what you know," he says again, then takes her hand and splays it out over the table's surface. He lays the tip of his knife over the back of her hand and waits.

She shakes her head and cries. Her cries turn into screams when he sinks the knife into her hand, right through to the wood beneath her palm.

"I DON'T KNOW," she sobs, over and over and over again. It is the only thing she can say. The only thing her voice will utter.

It makes the men furious.

* * *

She hears Peeta's screams after a while. They take her off guard. When she first hears him, she thinks she's hallucinating. Peeta is supposed to be in District 13. He's supposed to be with Katniss.

The realization that he isn't only makes her soul feel like it's being purged, as if bleach is eating away at her skin, because she thinks that she shouldn't be here either. She's supposed to be with Gloss.

Gloss. He must be dead.

He must be dead.

* * *

Johanna's screams keep her awake during the night. Peeta's screams keep her awake during the day. The boy is somewhere in the prison, though Elara has no idea if he is near or far. The echo of his voice makes it impossible to tell, but she hears it more often than Johanna's. She wonders if they can hear her, too.

"Tell us what you know," the man says, over and over. He burns her with hot irons, tears blades through her skin, smears her blood over her face with a mocking sneer. He bruises her until she can't remember the color of her own skin. He breaks her until her voice can make no noise but the sound of repressed agony.

She tells him, "I don't know anything," over and over, but he doesn't believe her.

* * *

"TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!"

She can only breathe, "I don't know…I don't know…"

Over and over and over again.

* * *

Maybe she's been down here for days, or maybe it's been weeks. Maybe the whole of a month has passed by. She doesn't know. She doesn't care. She is lost to this cell, swept up like dust and debris. The fear she had felt in the beginning slowly vanishes. All she feels now is resignation.

She's so tired. A part of her wants to die.

It is strange, then, when just one word makes her feel more alive than she's had in ages. Just one.

"…Elara?"

The voice is a shard. It is splintered with grief; hopelessness caught in the letters. When she hears it, she thinks she's dreaming.

But – she isn't, for there is Gloss, standing in the doorway of her cell with two Peacekeepers on both sides. When they shove him into the space, he stumbles. The three men that are in charge of her torture file in after him, but Gloss doesn't even give them a glance. His eyes are trained on her, and they are filled with so much despair that she can't remember how to breathe, again.

He throws himself forward, crawling to her form and reaching out. She inhales sharply, but it doesn't stop him from gingerly taking her face in his hands and leaning over her, pushing his forehead to hers and breathing out, "What have they done to you…"

She's broken. He's never seen a human being in such a state before. Her beautiful skin, which he has kissed over countless times, is marred with scratches and bruises. Her face, which he has spent endless nights dreaming of, is sunken and bony. The clothes she is wearing fall off her frame. He doesn't touch her, but he thinks he'd probably feel her ribs protruding from her body if he drew his hands down it.

She thinks she's dreaming. Gloss can't be here. He's dead. She hasn't heard his screams like she's heard Johanna and Peeta's. She hasn't seen any sign of him at all. That means this is all in her head.

She smiles at him and hoarsely whispers, "What a good dream…"

She watches Gloss's eyes fill with tears, and she thinks it's a strange sight. He never cries. Even at his lowest moments, she's rarely sees such a thing. He is strength exemplified, always. A tear pushes down his cheek, and she weakly reaches up to catch it before it can reach his chin.

"Don't cry," she tells him, but he only cries harder.

"It's not a dream, Elara," he chokes, shoulders shaking. Behind them, the three men watch curiously, as if this is merely some episode on a reality TV show that they don't truly care about. Gloss doesn't spare them a look, even though he can feel the weight of their stares on his back. He can't look away from Elara. He hadn't realized she was still alive, but the sight of her now makes him wonder if she would be better dead.

Can a human being survive this torment? He isn't sure.

Elara only hums, head falling back. She is too weak to support it, and if it wasn't for Gloss's hands it would hit the stone behind her. He heaves her up, mouth curling with a grief that cannot be put into words, and pulls her into his arms.

Her first thought is that he feels far too warm to be a dream. He is too real. The strength of his arms around her frame is too poignant. The way he breathes heavily against her shoulder is too lifelike. Her second thought isn't really a thought at all; it is more of an epiphany that hits her so squarely she begins to sob.

"Gloss," she cries, and buries her face against him. Her fingers weakly scrabble at his shoulders, grasping the thin fabric of his shirt and whimpering, "Are you alive?" The words seem to pour out of her without thought or control. She cannot stop them, even though she knows she must sound hysteric and insane.

Gloss shivers, body shaking, and heaves, "I'm alive Elara. You're not dreaming."

She cries. He cries too, like he's never done before, until the three men seem to have enough of this wayward scene and step in to break it up. When one of them grasps Gloss by the shoulder and starts to pull him back, things get a bit out of hand.

Gloss growls at them like a wild animal and shoves the man back. He lets go of Elara to instead turn on them, hands fisted at his sides as he stands up. But – he's weak, too, from his time in the hospital. His leg is still healing, and when the Peacekeepers reenter the cell to put him down, it only takes one hard swing in the gut to send him reeling to the floor.

Elara rattles out a gasp and flies to his side, feeling a strength she hadn't known she still had roil up within her at the sight of him gasping on the ground. The Peacekeeper that had punched him darts forward to send his foot into Gloss's stomach, kicking him so hard that Gloss heaves out and turns his cheek to the stone. Elara cries over him, but the paltry protection her body offers is quickly stripped away when the Peacekeepers grab Gloss's arms and pull him up.

"You're his weakness, it seems," one of the lab coats murmurs, eyeing Elara like she's a science experiment. The look in his eye makes Gloss snarl, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't push the Peacekeepers off of him.

"Don't touch her," he bites, voice vicious and shaking with anger and the remnants of his tears. Elara can only stare at him from her spot on the ground. Running to him would be futile, especially when the Peacekeepers are shoving him back out of the cell.

He only has time to look back at her and say in a strained voice, "Elara, stay alive for me. Stay alive – " And then the door of Elara's cell is swinging shut, and the sound of the Peacekeepers dragging him away echoes in her head.

It doesn't linger long, though, before it is replaced with the sight of the three men in lab coats peering down at her from the other side of the room.

For a moment, they don't do anything. But then…

"If she's his weakness, then what's hers?" one of the wonders casually as he walks over to the table with the iron devices. Elara turns her head away and tries not to look. She doesn't want to know which one he takes.

The main scientist shrugs, studying her like one might study an insect stuck in a screened cage, and smirks, "Clients."

The word makes her lift her head so quickly that her neck snaps in pain.

The man just smiles wider and murmurs again, "There are many ways to make a person talk, my dear."


	51. I speak not, for silence knowledge owns,

**A/N: Just a quick warning for this chapter: The flashback contains a very graphic sex scene between Gloss and Elara. This chapter also has implied themes of rape and not so implied themes of torture. I'll probably be adding warnings at the start of the next few chapters just so people know when to skip if they'd like.**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty One | I must speak not, for silence knowledge owns,**

"_These violent delights have violent ends_

_And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,_

_Which, as they kiss, consume."_

_2.6, 9-11 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Elara Winston is a scrawny thing, and in the middle of Gloss's bedroom, she strikes a very skittish figure._

_It might've amused him, to some extent – the way she has transformed from audacious to apprehensive the moment she had stepped through the threshold. It might've, if the meaning of this act had not been so heavy and solemn. But it is, and he isn't blind to the consequences of the night or the undertones of discomfort that drive through the spaces between them like bullets might drive through flesh._

_Flesh – the very thing that draws them together. The curse and the redemption all in one._

"_You don't have to do this, you know," he tells her, eyeing her from several paces away. He's not accustomed to nervousness of this kind, but he'd be damned if he doesn't feel the starkness of that apprehension cut through him. Maybe it's some transfer of emotion that splits across the air and gets captured against his skin, because he can't help but wonder if this had been a good idea after all._

_She had been awkward in accepting his proposition to her at the bar, but it is only now that her hesitance is truly unveiled – showcased in such a way that makes him feel like a dirty, haggard soul who wants nothing but his own satiation. It isn't true – but she's looking at him as if she thinks it is, and Gloss isn't comfortable under that weighted, nervous stare._

_He sighs and walks to the edge of the bed. He isn't blind to the way she stiffens just so as he passes her, or clutches her fingers into the hem of her shirt as he takes a seat. It makes him frown._

_Gloss Augustine is many things. A Career, a Victor, a man with far more pride than he sometimes thinks he should possess – but he isn't someone who would take advantage of a girl like her. And Elara Winston…well, she is a girl. She's barely nineteen and far too innocent to survive in this city. Only a few years separate them, but the experiences he has had in that amount of time dealing with that very same city has matured him faster than a mere passage of numbers to mark his age._

_He slants his eyes up to hers and gives her a blunt smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. She hasn't responded to him, and he takes it to mean that she isn't entirely sure what she wants. He can't entirely blame her._

_They don't know each other. They've met a handful of times. Hardly long enough to truly understand the nature of a person._

"_I guess you don't think very highly of me," he mutters, studying her unapologetically from the side of the bed. He shrugs and says, "You can leave if you want. Or sleep on the couch. I don't mind."_

_He smiles that blunt, barely there smile again and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He has no intention of forcing her to do anything at all, regardless of his proposition. If she's no longer sure of herself, then he fully intends on getting some sleep, at the very least. But –_

_She crosses the room in three purposeful strides, and her hands stop his with an abrupt movement that makes him look up at her curiously. They stare at each other for a weighted moment before she shyly sinks to the bed next to him and draws his hands away from his shirt. They idle on his leg, fingers twisted together. He turns his eyes down with that very same curious look blazing through his gaze, and watches are her fingers quiver as they wrap around his._

"…_You said you'd be gentle with me," she whispers. Her voice is a feeble thing, construed of a sort of halting bashfulness that strips it down to its bones._

_He looks up at her to catch her eye, and his fingers tighten around hers when she keeps her own gaze locked onto their hands._

"…_Yes," he whispers back, and watches her throat move as she swallows._

_She lifts a hand to her neck and confesses, "I've never been with a man before."_

_The corner of his mouth quirks up at her sincerity. He turns their hands, squeezing hers between the both of his own as he hums, "I know."_

_This time, when she looks up, she looks straight into his eyes. She laughs haltingly and mutters, "Ah…right. I already blurted that out at the bar, didn't I?"_

_He chuckles and hums again, because he isn't really sure what to say._

_What does one say to a stranger that is about to spend the night in their bed? Elara Winston is a mystery to him – one that he isn't sure he even wants to figure out. He's doing this because he feels sorry for her. There isn't any other underlying reason for it, save perhaps a desire to not be as alone as he usually is when he comes to the Capitol without his sister to bolster him. It isn't a craving for pleasure – it's a yearning for comfort. Maybe that makes him selfish. Maybe it just makes him human._

_It doesn't really matter what it makes him, only that he has no idea how to actually go about this. They say that sex with no strings attached is easy, but suddenly he isn't so sure._

_Elara isn't, either. She's barely even kissed a man, let alone sat on the edge of a bed with one informing him that she's a virgin. A year ago, she never would have expected that she'd be doing this with Gloss Augustine, one of the most well-known Victors in Panem. Then again, a year ago she was still just Elara Winston, an engineering student with a very specific set of goals – none of which included becoming a Victor, an orphan, and a prostitute in a matter of months._

_Gloss reaches up to slide his fingers over her cheek. He tilts her chin up and hovers over her, studying her trembling mouth for a moment before raising his eyes to hers. She is staring at his nose, as if she can't quite bring herself to look at him directly. When he leans in closer, her eyelids flutter closed._

_His mouth cautiously slants over hers – just the barest shift of their lips. Regardless of this, though, it strikes him in a powerful way. It is a stark realization that this is the first kiss he has willingly given for a very long time. The first initiative that he has taken without the crowded sense of manipulation breathing down his neck. For this reason alone, he thinks it is wonderful._

_She kisses him back hesitantly, leaning into him with a shyness that he finds uniquely appealing in a way he can't put his finger on. It's a transcending feeling that cannot be put into words – only felt, as one might feel the shimmering touch of a springtime shower warmly gusting over your body._

_She has a nice mouth, he decides. It is often curved into a challenging smirk, but tonight that expression has vanished in its entirely. When he turns his body towards hers and lifts both hands to cup her face, he finds himself enjoying the shaky moment more than he had thought he would._

_It isn't that he doesn't find Elara Winston attractive; it's just that he had never really thought of her in any such manner before tonight. He is several years older than her, from a different district, with a different legacy. Before now, he had never given her any more than a passing thought. But suddenly – with swift alteration – a door has been opened between them that had previously been locked, and he finds himself wanting to step through the threshold of it._

_He deepens the kiss, tilting her head to the side and sighing out against her mouth. She is uncertain in her actions. He can feel her hesitance as clear as day as she cautiously moves her lips with his. He has to remind himself that it's likely that she has little experience with kissing. It certainly seems that way. Her movements are messy and bashful, and she keeps her hands firmly in her lap as if she doesn't think she has the right to touch him._

"_My shirt," Gloss whispers to her, lips moving against hers as he says the words. Her eyes flutter open in confusion. The blue of them appear darker in the soft lighting. He reaches for her hand and places it on his chest, telling her, "Take it off."_

_Her fingers tremble. He watches her very closely as she swallows and raises her other hand to begin undoing the buttons. He thinks it's a little endearing, really, that she has never taken a man's shirt off before. There is something strangely enchanting about being her first._

_He helps slide the material off his shoulders. Their kiss dissolves with the maneuver, and for a moment they just sit there next to each other and do nothing but stare – so close, but so far – until Elara gingerly places her hands over the warm planes of his chest and caresses his skin._

_Gloss hears the shaky breath that she releases, and smiles down at her. She smiles back, looking bashful and endearing and enchanting, and leans forward to cautiously press her lips to his shoulder. He stays very still as she traces the edge of his collar with her mouth, skimming kisses over the base of his neck and running her fingers over his upper body. He allows her to touch him however she wants, happy that she is taking the lead in some small way. It proves that she is comfortable enough around him to do such a thing._

"_You're so muscular," she murmurs, drifting her hand over his arm. She can feel the hardened muscles beneath his skin, which is soft and warm under her fingertips. She can feel the way they flex just so at her touch. It's thrilling in a way she hadn't anticipated, touching him. She thinks she rather likes his body after all. Not that she hadn't found him appealing before, but he is Gloss Augustine and before a few months ago, she had been nobody._

_Gloss's hand slides over her hair, weaves his fingers into the silken copper strands. In this lighting, they appear darker, like crushed auburn with just the barest hint of gold shimmering through the strands. He had never noticed how pretty her hair is, or how soft it feels to run it through his fingers._

_Elara pauses, lifting her mouth from the hesitant path she had been kissing over his chest. She leans back to look at him. Their eyes lock, and Gloss is about to ask what's wrong when she suddenly pulls back and stands up. For a split second he thinks that she means to leave after all – walk through the door and retract this night altogether. He sits there and watches her, waiting for her to erase it all, but instead Elara just awkwardly clears her throat and slips the hem of her shirt over her head, pulling the fabric off of her body. He's so surprised by the move that he raises his eyebrows at her and quirks a smile, eyes slanting over the revealed flesh with curious intent._

_Elara Winston really is a scrawny thing, but – there is something about her that captures his attention so solidly that he finds himself slowly standing up and moving forward._

"_You thought I was going to leave, didn't you?" she wonders, fisting the fabric of her shirt which still hangs uselessly in her hands, as if she hasn't quite made up her mind about whether she should discard it entirely or pull it back on._

_Gloss chuckles and responds, "You can leave if you want to. You're the one controlling the pace."_

_She's too new at this for him to feel like he should handle it any differently. He doesn't want to frighten her off by being too bold, even though this is probably the slowest foreplay he's ever had – if one can even call it that. He alright with it though. He's doing this to give her a real experience before Snow sells her to clients who won't care about pleasing her at all. He wants to show her what it feels like to enjoy yourself through sex, and if this is the pace that she needs to set in order to feel that, then so be it._

_His words make Elara wrinkle her nose at him though. She scoffs quietly to herself as she looks down at her shirt, then takes a deep breath and drops it onto the floor. He watches the fabric flutter away and thinks it rather feels as though it should be heavier – weigh enough to make a thud or a dropping sound, because he thinks he can feel the reverberation of it echo through his body._

"_I want you to control the pace," she tells him abruptly, and suddenly the shy sides of her personality are blanketed over with the very same challenging persona that she usually wears. And while her shyness had been endearing to him, he does have to admit that he is somewhat relieved to see this part of her resurfacing._

_He crosses his arms and warns, "You might regret saying that."_

_After all, if he controls the pace, he will probably be too impatient and driven to cultivate the haltingly slow quality of her own movements. She may not like that. But then again…_

"_You'll be gentle, won't you?" she demands, raising an eyebrow at him and crossing her arms, too, as if in challenge._

_The corner of his mouth twitches with the hint of a smile. "I said I would be."_

_She nods and staunchly tells him, "Then I want you to control the pace."_

_Gloss exhales slowly at this and hums, "Alright then. Come here."_

_She steps forward. By the time she reaches him, the shyness seems to have returned, but Gloss doesn't allow himself to wonder at it. Instead he merely draws her closer, pulling her into his body as he slips his hands around her waist and raises one to cup her cheek. And then, leaning in, he kisses her again – but this time he does not linger in the recesses of that transcended shimmer that had defined their last kiss. This time when he kisses her, he kisses her deeply, and when she makes a soft sound against his mouth and reaches up to grasp his shoulders, he knows that she doesn't really mind._

_Clothes begin to fall away. Their jeans meet the floor, and he guides her to the bed and follows her down onto the mattress. Her lips are bruised now, and when he leans back in to kiss her again and to bruise them some more, her movements are a little more certain and her lips don't tremble quite as much._

_It is a strange thing, revealing yourself to another person. Elara tries not to be too shy when the last of her clothing comes off. She forces her hands to remain where they are at her sides, but she can't stop the blush from overcoming her cheeks as he leans back and looks down at her naked form. It's just that – he's Gloss Augustine. According to Capitol Weekly, he's the most sought after bachelor in Panem. She knows, because she had read the article just the other day after Ignatius had tossed her the magazine and informed her that her interview with Caesar had been published in it._

_He's Gloss Augustine and he's flawless. And she…well, she isn't._

_There is no hint that he agrees with her thoughts though, when he peruses her form and slowly leans over her to drag his hand up her side. It is the soft spin of admiration in his eyes that she focuses on. She lets it become the anchor that she needs in this moment – the weight that allows her to forget just how nervous she is to be naked with a man who is practically a stranger._

_Gloss cups her breast and exhales softly at the feel of her. Her skin is like velvet – silken and supple beneath his touch. When he thumbs over her nipple, her eyes flutter in reaction. When he leans down to kiss the skin, her fingers grip his shoulders tightly. He figures out why only a moment later, when Elara incredulously breathes, "That feels good."_

_It is the tone that she uses – all surprised and baffled – that has him laughing. And it is the laugh that makes the atmosphere so much lighter than it had been before. His eyes slant up to hers and he chuckles, "You didn't think I could make you feel good, Winston?"_

_She blushes again and he thinks it's the most endearing thing he's ever seen._

"_That's not what I meant," she mumbles, pursing her lips at him. Her hair is an auburn halo around her head, skin flushed, body warm, and he thinks in that moment that she is everything he needs right now. The perfect cure for his loneliness and his torment. The perfect distraction from his nightmares._

_He chuckles again and leans down to lay a kiss between her breasts, shifting his body until he's kneeling over her and both hands are gently massaging her chest. It's partly because he likes touching her, partly because she likes it too. Her breathing gets shallower as he touches her, thumbing over her nipples. His hands are firm enough to do something strange to her. It is an indescribable cultivation of power that spins through her veins like some tepid wispy dream that she loses herself in. It is a firefight; a snap of flame in the hearth. All at once, she thinks she wants more of him._

_She's never wanted a man before, but she wants this one._

"_Gloss," she whispers, her voice edging just so with a moan that he can feel reverberating through her. He hums against her breast and glances up at her, hand sliding down her waist and over her abdomen. He rather likes touching her. There is something about the feel of her skin against his that is utterly addicting, and he isn't sure he's ever felt the spin of it before with anyone else._

_Maybe it's just been a while since he's had a woman of his own volition, or maybe it's simply the fact that Elara Winston is so incredibly gorgeous as she lays shyly below him and gasps shallowly at his touches._

_She's a scrawny thing, but he doesn't think that's so very bad._

_He watches her swallow thickly, watches her slip her hands around his biceps, and watches her pull him up her body. She brings his head down so that she can kiss him, and as she does her hands tumble back down his form until they reach the waistband of his briefs. He's just a little surprised that she would take such an initiative, and it makes him pause in the kiss to look down at her._

_Elara just purses her lips and hooks her fingers beneath the fabric. "Take them off," she says. Her voice is a wisp of sound, but he can hear the faint crease of her demand bolster through the words._

_His mouth quirks up. Leaning back to hover over her, Gloss hums, "Alright."_

_He likes a woman who has enough confidence to order him around._

_He is just beginning to push the fabric off his hips when Elara bolts forward with a strained, "Wait!" The exclamation is so sudden that he immediately stops, lifting his head to stare at her. He thinks she's changed her mind, but Elara only sinks down in before him so that they are kneeling in front of each other and hoarsely tells him, "…I want to do it."_

_He's surprised by this. She had only just been blushing vividly because of his attention, and now she wants to undress him? It is a captivating contradiction that has him pausing as he studies her._

_Elara swallows at the way he looks at her, but doesn't retract her words. Her fingers are a bit shaky when she reaches out to hook them into his briefs. He doesn't stop her as she slowly tugs them down his hips, and helps her only to wrangle them off and toss them to the floor. And then, turning back, Gloss can't help but chuckle a little when he catches sight of her expression._

_She's staring at him. He'd probably find the situation a bit uncomfortable, if it had been anyone else. To be honest, though, instead of discomfort he feels that endearing blend of amusement as he kneels in front of her wearing absolutely nothing. If she's never had sex before, then she's probably never seen a man in such a state. This is her first time in all ways._

_She casts a quick glance up at his face, sees the amused smile he's wearing, and blushes a bit. "Can I…?" she haltingly wonders, laying her hand over his thigh. Despite the awkwardness that bolts through her, she feels a strange desire capture her skin and heart. She's never felt such desire before, but quite suddenly she is overcome by the craving to touch him; to run her fingers over the length of him and find out what he feels like._

_The question has Gloss swallowing as well. He clears his throat and murmurs, "Yes." He doesn't tell her that he desperately wants her to do just that. He thinks that being too eager will probably scare her off._

_He's so warm when she reaches out to curl her fingers around him. Her first thought is that she's never felt anything so soft and warm. His skin is like velvety steel, hard but silken beneath her fingers. She cups him in her palm curiously, thumbing over the length of him. His skin is flushed and redder than the rest of his body, but she thinks she likes it. What she likes even more, though, is the way he reacts to her touch._

_If her first thought is how warm he is in her hand, her second is that the way his eyes flutter as she pulls her touch over him is utterly beautiful. Instead of looking down at his length, Elara finds herself watching his face. In fact, she can't look away from him. His expression melts as she shifts her hand over him. He looks almost pained._

_When that realization hits her, Elara immediately draws back with a concerned, "Am I hurting you?"_

_The abrupt question makes his eyes shoot open. He looks confused, until he seems to grasp what she's talking about and laughs. He laughs so deeply that Elara finds herself blushing a bit because she thinks he's laughing at her. She leans back, shuffling away, but – Gloss merely scoops her up and presses her down into the mattress, still chuckling even as he says, "No, Winston. You weren't hurting me."_

_She stares at him. His voice is almost a growl – dark and edged with what almost sounds like desire. It makes her shiver earnestly beneath him, especially when he nestles his body against hers and she feels the press of him against her parted legs._

_He reaches for her hand and guides it back down between their bodies, wrapping her fingers around his length once more and murmuring, "Keep going…"_

_She exhales shakily but does as he says, because she finds that she really wants to touch him. The feel of him against her hand is so incredibly arousing, especially when he squeezes her fingers and throatily tells her, "You can hold me tighter."_

_She swallows and does just that, happy that he is guiding her through this and telling her what he wants. She watches his expression again, and lifts a hand up to his cheek as his eyes crease with that look once more. Now that she's seeing it again, she thinks that it isn't pain at all, but rather the intensity of pleasure so vast that it takes on the appearance of every extreme emotion in existence. He looks down at her when she drifts her fingers over his cheekbone, and breathes out._

"_I want to touch you too," he whispers to her, dropping his hand from hers to instead thumb over her hip. She is so overcome by the satisfaction she feels as she touches him that she doesn't stiffen or blush. When his fingers dip against her folds and draws over the wetness of them, she just closes her eyes and shifts her legs open._

_His touch his very gentle, but it isn't too soft or too cautious. The way he spins pleasure through her body is incredible. She's never felt anything like it before. He's got her panting into the sheets within minutes with just his fingers, and when he tips her over the edge and watches her come, he thoroughly enjoys the sight she makes as she quivers beneath his body and whispers his name._

_And when he enters her minutes later, slowly easing himself into her and gently taking the last of her innocence, she looks up at him and he nearly falters at the trust that blares through her eyes. He doesn't think anyone's ever looked at him like that before, and it makes him feel warm and pleasant even as their bodies become one._

_He stands behind what he had said, before. He is very gentle with her. He is so gentle that when it's all over and they're laying together in bed, relaxed and at peace, she thanks him._

_He chuckles and merely says, "I think this is the start to a great friendship, Winston." And as he squeezes her playfully, she laughs in agreement._

_They do become friends. But the lines between friendship and love are not very thick, and falling for the scrawny woman beside him is surprisingly easy._

* * *

The cell that Gloss is thrown into is only several doors down from Elara's. He isn't blind to this, and neither is he confused as to why they are so close. These men want answers to their many questions, and if they need to use extreme measures to get them, then they will. Being this close will make it impossible to ignore the other's screams.

They should have been more careful – should have continued to keep their affection under wraps instead of allow it to be revealed. Perhaps, if they had considered this possible outcome more fully, they would have had more reservations. They had been too idealistic. Too hopeful. They had been too sure that they'd end up in District 13.

Gloss pushes himself against the wall and sits down on the floor, grimacing a bit against the pain that flutters through him from the Peacekeeper's punch. He has no idea how long it's been since the end of the Games. He was knocked out for most of it, trapped in a hospital bed to heal his broken bone. Still, he must have been there for a while, for Elara's reaction to seeing him wouldn't make sense otherwise.

He closes his eyes and recalls her ruined body, hands fisting into his hair as anger catches him abruptly in the chest. She has a beautiful form, graceful and angular, but they have taken her and bent her out of shape. The thought of this treatment makes him grit his teeth.

She'd been so hysteric at the thought that he was still alive. He supposes he can't blame her for it. He hadn't been sure whether she was alive or dead either. He isn't sure of anything, these days.

He sighs and tilts his head against the wall behind him. His eyes slip shut…and then they burst open when he hears, "LET GO OF ME – " from Elara's cell.

He throws himself up and stalks to the door, but no matter how much he tries to force it open, the iron thing won't budge. All he can do is grasp the handle uselessly and bang his fist against the metal and close his eyes tightly and –

He can't save her.

Maybe he never could.

* * *

He tries to smother his screams. When they come into his cell to force information out of him, the pain that they inflict threatens to keel him over. He bites down on his cheek to halt the agonized sounds that want to leave his throat. He knows that this is precisely why they placed his cell so close to Elara's. They want him to scream. They want the sound of his pain to weaken her.

They have an advantage over him, and that advantage comes in the form of a woman. It comes in the form of his wayward heart which beats only for her.

They all know it. When they go into Elara's cell, the sound of her misery is enough to make him shout until his voice is hoarse and raw. Her name becomes a mantra that rips up his throat and sends him into a furious downward spiral. He isn't sure if he screams it to make her feel like she's not alone, or if it's to make him feel like he actually has some power still. As if he actually has the ability to make this terrible situation a little less devastating. He supposes it doesn't matter why. All that matters is that they are both here, in the one place that they are not supposed to be.

* * *

He isn't a fool. He knows what's going on three doors down. He knows the sound of rape. He knows that the grunts and moans can only come from one thing. He knows, too, that Elara is the target of it.

He knows, and it makes him beat his fists against the wall until they're ragged and bloody, but it doesn't make anything better.

He knows that, too.

What he doesn't know is why they had made sure that his broken bone had completely healed before throwing him down here. He doesn't know what sort of plan they have for him, for surely, they must have something in mind. This not-knowing grates on his mind during the scant hours of silence, and smothers him with cloying resignation.

A part of him doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything but the sound of that woman's terror.

* * *

When Elara is let out of her cell a few days later, she expects the worst. She thinks they're bringing her to Gloss's cell for another torture session, but instead they just force her down the hall and keep going, not stopping until they reach an elevator. She's so weak that when they shove her inside that she barely manages to catch herself against the railing.

"Where…?" she hoarsely croaks, but she's too exhausted to form a full sentence.

The man just chuckles and pushes her into a Peacekeeper, who holds her up because she doesn't have enough strength to do it herself. He doesn't answer her. Perhaps he decides that it isn't worth it to humor the broken Victor who can't even stand on her own.

They take the elevator up, and up, and up. When the doors open to the upper floor of the prison, where a small hospital is set up, the man drags her off and tosses her at a pair of doctors who are waiting for her arrival.

"Clean her up," he orders. "I want her flawless."

The doctors just nod and guide her over to one of the beds. She drops down onto it with mixed emotions – part fear, part relief. She hasn't laid in a bed for ages, and the starchy sheets are heavenly. Yet she is afraid, too, because she isn't sure why the man wants her to be flawless. She isn't even sure that such a thing is possible, anymore.

She's hooked up to an IV. It must contain a sedative of some kind, because her vision is quick to darken. Before she loses consciousness entirely, she sees the doctors laying out surgical tools and equipment by the bed. The sight would make her nervous, but the morphling erases every single emotion she possesses and drags her down before she can feel them.

* * *

When she wakes up, she is flawless.

Her skin is no longer mottled and bruised. Her nails are not cracked or broken. She is not sore or in pain. When she reaches up to touch her head, her hair is silky and clean.

She lays there for a long time before the door opens and the man steps into the room with the doctors who had apparently fixed her up. When she sees him, her fear returns to her in full force. It catches her squarely in the chest like a tsunami, and she can't breathe around it.

"You look much better," the man nods, eyeing her healed body with a discernable gaze. He turns to the doctors and they speak in hushes words. Elara assumes that they're talking about her, but she can't hear what they're saying. It's only when the man turns back to her and says, "Are you ready for your next session, my dear?", that she realizes this fleeting peace is just as false as everything else in this place.

"What are you going to do to me?" she demands. Her voice is stronger than it's been in days. Her throat is no longer hoarse or painful. She sounds more like herself, but she isn't sure that it's a good thing or not.

The man just chuckles and makes a gesture to the Peacekeepers that are standing nearby. They step forward to help Elara up, and keep a strong grip on her as they force her back to the elevator.

"_I'm_ not planning on doing anything to you," the man drawls as he joins them, and pushes the button for the ground floor. He casually leans against the wall and casts a disparaging glance at her before adding, "You should be thankful, you know. I'm letting you spend the night with your man."

At this, Elara's eyes blaze, and he holds up a hand to silence her before she can demand answers. He narrows is eyes and says, "We've patched him up too. You both need to be in good condition for your client."

Her mouth drops open. She stares at the man with a wild expression, and desperately repeats, "…Client?"

He laughs again and she wants to throttle him.

"You didn't think those lowlifes that came to you in your cell were your actual clients, did you?" he wonders. With a shrug, he informs her, "You're a Victor, my dear. People will pay a lot of money for a night with you, especially if you're a package deal."

The term 'package deal' makes her stomach roil. She shakily murmurs, "You don't mean…"

The man just snorts as the elevator doors slide open again. He steps out and drawls, "It wasn't my original idea, you know? But your client seemed to like the thought of having you both at once. Who am I to deny him?" He pauses, glances back at her rigid form, and gestures for her to follow him. "Come along, my dear. You're on a schedule tonight."

When she doesn't move, the Peacekeepers force her forward. They drag her over to the car that's waiting nearby. The man opens the door for her. She falters though, because she realizes that the car is already occupied. The Peacekeepers shove her into the backseat and she lurches forward from the move, only to be caught up in familiar arms.

Gloss. He's already sitting there, and when she falls into him, he clenches his jaw tightly. He knows, then.

That cannot be happening. They can't make them do this. They can't strip away the final pieces of them that are their own – can't ruin the only good thing that still exists in their memories. The endless nights spent together in their pursuit of comfort and happiness cannot be taken from them. But that's exactly what these people are planning, and as the door swings shut and the car pulls out of the parking garage and into the city streets, Elara knows that this torture is going to be ten times worse than any she has experienced so far.

She gingerly pushes herself up, looking over at Gloss as if he is a stranger to her. He looks far better than the last time she'd seen him, when he was covered in blood and laying on the floor of her cell in a useless heap. There is something about him, though, that is different from how she remembers him to be. Some scrap of weakness that invades his eyes and turns him into an exhausted, harrowed creature so far removed from the protective strength of his previous self.

"…Don't cry," he whispers to her, staring hard. He looks at her with desperate grief and breathes, "I'll be there. It'll be okay. Don't cry, Elara. Please."

She bites her lip to keep her violent emotions at bay, and allows Gloss to pull her into his arms. Oh – the safety of them as they wrap around her! They are shaking, but it doesn't matter. She still feels the familiar brand of his vitality press into her soul. It feels like the sun coming out on a rainy day, pushing past the clouds and bending its rays to warm the soil far below.

"Gloss," she breathes against him, and burying her face against his neck. His scent reminds her of the sterilized hospital that she had only just come from herself. He doesn't smell like he should, but she doesn't care.

It is enough to be held by him, even though she knows it won't last.

"Are you okay?" he asks her quietly, eyeing the Peacekeepers who are driving them to their destination. He tightens his arms around her cautiously, as if he's afraid that she's going to shatter like glass if he holds her too hard.

She sighs out and shallowly gasps, "Are you?"

He works his jaw at the frightened sound of her voice.

"I'm not in pain anymore," he whispers to her, only partially lying. His body still hurts. Even now, as he leans back against the seat of the car, the pain flutters over him. When he strains his arms and pulls at the muscles of his shoulder blades, he feels it clawing over him viciously. But – the pain isn't nearly as encompassing as it had been before. Apparently, they had wanted him patched up so that he can deal with this client without keeling over.

"…Elara," he mutters, squeezing her arm with a deep frown. "Tonight…you realize what's going to happen, don't you?"

He feels her shudder into him and clamps his mouth shut. Of course she realizes it. She isn't stupid. Her wit is one of the things he loves most about her. But still…

"Nothing they make us do is going to change anything," he whispers into her hair, holding her tightly. His hand reaches out to cup her cheek and tilts her face up to his. When their eyes lock and he sees the anguish in her gaze, he swallows thickly. His thumb strokes over her cheek, trying to give her what small comfort he can, but it doesn't seem to work.

Elara just closes her eyes and leans into his hand, and hoarsely says, "It's going to change everything, Gloss."

Everything.


	52. And yet my lips seek out this kiss

**A/N: Chapter warning: Non-consensual sex with a client, though I grazed over it as much as I could and didn't get too detailed.**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty Two | And yet my lips seek out this tender kiss;**

"_No warmth, no breath, shall testify though livest;_

_The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade_

_To wanny ashes, thy eyes' windows fall_

_Like death when he shuts up the day of life;_

_Each part, deprived of supple government,_

_Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death."_

_4.1, 98-102 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

"_Ow! That hurts," Elara grumbles, flinching as Gloss dabs ointment over a scratch that blossoms over her thigh. The grimace she gives him makes him purse his lips._

_He doesn't say anything at first. He seems entirely focused on what he's doing. She's got several cuts over her legs and arms, and one on her hip that she hasn't mentioned quite yet. The first moment he had saw the state of her, he'd gone to get the medical kit shoved beneath the bathroom cabinet. She hadn't complained even as he had handed her one of his undershirts and gruffly told her to change. She hadn't even complained when he had tugged her to the side of the bed and sat her down onto it, immediately opening the medical kit without a word._

_After a moment, he rocks back on his heels and looks up at her. His eyes hone in on the bruise that wraps around her jaw, and he grits his teeth. The thought of her being with a client is enough to make his blood boil, but the thought of them abusing her like this has him seeing red._

"_Hold still," he mutters, and reaches for a bandage. Elara doesn't move when he curls his hand around her thigh and gently puts the bandage over the cut. He doesn't ask where the deep scratch had come from. It's placed in such a way that makes it fairly obvious: this client of hers had dug his fingernails into her and clawed these marks into her skin, probably when he was heaving her legs apart and –_

_He stops the thought there, because he doesn't want to think it. But even as he tries to wrangle it down, Gloss can't ignore the blatantly obvious signs that pepper her body like a series of red flags._

_He sighs and leans forward, resting his forehead on his palm and hovering over her legs. In a tired voice, he mumbles, "Where else?"_

_Elara swallows and looks away. The sight makes him raise his head to her, his eyes sharp and knowing. He knows that expression. It is guilty, but it shouldn't be. She hadn't gone to those rooms because she wanted to. Hadn't let those clients harm her of her own free will. This is rape, but the word is so despicable that Gloss often tries not to let it rule the delicate nature of this atmosphere. To think that Elara is raped regularly makes him want to die._

"_Tell me," he says quietly. He tries to keep his voice gentle, but there is a panicked edge to it that he cannot hide. Not from her._

_Elara sighs and turns away from him. "I can do this myself, Gloss. You don't have to – "_

"_Tell me, Elara," he says again, begs almost. He can't bear this. Sometimes, he thinks the sight of her in pain is worse than any other._

_She stares at him, takes in his determined eyes and clenched jaw, and shakily whispers, "I don't want you to see."_

_Her thighs press together, and he breathes out with a frown._

"_Please, Gloss," she says, throat tight with the onset of tears. She feels them start to crowd in on her, and before she can compose herself, one of them runs down her cheek. She hastily wipes it away with a vengeance, but it's too late. He sees it._

_He leans back on his knees, grasping the sides of the bed tightly as he stares up at the woman who is usually too stubborn to cry. Elara Winston has been through hell itself, but he rarely ever sees such a sight. Silence hangs between them heavily. It is only broken when he carefully asks, "…Does it hurt?"_

_The question makes her laugh, but it is really more of a sob, and Gloss exhales shakily because he doesn't know what to do to make her feel better._

"_A bath, maybe?" he asks, then murmurs, "I could call Cashmere…"_

_His sister is also in the Capitol this time around. They had both arrived together, and they'll both be leaving again in a few days. Elara and Cashmere have grown much closer since the beginning of their connection, and Cashmere intrinsically understands Elara's pain because she, too, experiences it. Even though Gloss isn't naïve to the singular torture of a hotel room, he knows that it's different as a man. Cashmere would be better suited for this._

"_No," Elara quickly tells him before he can make up his mind. She shakes her head and gasps, "Don't call Cashmere."_

_He frowns but doesn't argue, only watches her closely and wonders how he can make this okay. But there isn't a way. There's never a way to make something like this right. He knows that, but seeing her in pain makes him feel like he's in pain, too._

"_Okay…" he murmurs after a long moment, and hesitantly stands up. He turns to leave the room, but before he does he looks down at her and pauses. Instead of walking away, Gloss just sighs and reaches out to cup her cheek, thumbing over her skin gently as he quietly tells her, "You know that nothing would change how I see you, Elara. If you need my help, just ask."_

_Her tears spill over. His eyes soften at her, and he brushes them away._

"_Nothing?" she repeats, voice shaky and derisive, almost, as if she can't believe it._

_But Gloss just heaves out a chuckle. She gives him an exasperated smile at this – just the slightest twist of her mouth, really – and reaches up to touch his hand. "I always knew you were crazy."_

_He hums at her and just murmurs, "Well then I like being crazy." Then, squeezing her fingers gently, he steps back and leaves her alone, closing the bedroom door behind him._

_Elara stares at the closed door for a long time before she turns to the medical kit and carries it gingerly into the bathroom. The warmth of Gloss's surprisingly sweet words vanish when she tugs the undershirt off of her frame and looks at herself in the mirror. He had really only seen the lightest injuries. If he were to see her now…_

_A deep purple bruise curls around her hip, ugly and stark against her pale skin. Her abdomen is littered with scratches and bruises, little cuts left from clawing fingernails. She's sure her back isn't much better. But it's not those cuts and scratches that make the tears pool down her cheeks. It isn't the dull ache of them that has her tapping her fingers against the skin and working up the courage to part her legs. When she finally does, she tilts her head back and sighs out a tearful laugh that holds no trace of humor at all._

_She's ripped up. Irreparable. Ruined._

_She swallows back her pained whimpers as she opens the ointment and tends to the cuts that litter her womanhood. She knows she'll have to make a trip to the doctor's office for this, but she doesn't want to worry Gloss quite yet. She wants to pretend that it had never happened. She wants to ignore the memories of tonight in favor of Gloss's arms._

_And she does, when she steps out of the bedroom to find him waiting on the couch, two glasses of whiskey on the table in front of him. When she reaches for it and downs the entire thing in a few gulps, he doesn't even try to stop her. Instead he just gathers her up and pours her another glass, and he doesn't need to say anything, because –_

_He knows her well enough by now that he doesn't need to._

* * *

She isn't wrong. Everything changes.

The hotel room they are led to is even more luxurious than the usual ones she frequents. It's on the top floor, and the penthouse suite is expansive and boasts quite a few rooms. When they walk into it, the Peacekeepers bolt the door and go to sit down in the foyer. Their white armor looks stark against the black leather couches of it, and the way they immediately turn the TV on and sit back is deceptively calm. It creates a strange image. Elara's never seen a Peacekeeper watching television before, but the sight that it brings causes a sickening realization to lurch through her.

They intend on staying throughout the night. Is it because they don't trust the Victors to remain where they are and not try to escape? Elara shoots a wary look at Gloss, who is holding her hand tightly as they stand in the center of the room.

The sound of a clock tears the through the silence. In the strange lilting quiet of the room, it sounds like a curse weaving through the air. Elara shuffles closer to Gloss's side and peers around the space in a flimsy attempt to ignore the noise. The room sweeps out in an open plan. The far wall is all floor length windows that span the entire thing and are only broken by fluttery gossamer curtains that hang down from ceiling to floor. There are several chairs in front of them. The fine upholstery of them look expensive.

To the left, the suite fans out into another room that is hidden from a wall. There's a potted fern standing beside it that is nearly six feet tall. Its leaves rush out like spikes and create a strange dash of color in an otherwise pale space. To the right, a kitchen sweeps into existence; all polished, gleaming stainless steel and grey wood cabinets. There are a few pots and pans hanging from a rack above the stove, but it's probably for show. She doubts the kitchen will be getting any use for now, at least.

They are here for only one reason, and it isn't to make use of the facilities that this place offers.

"Ah…you're here," a voice says, and Elara's gaze is dragged away from her perusal of the kitchen. Her eyes clash with a familiar face that she happens to know fairly well, by now. It is a man that has spent many nights with her and probably more money than she could count.

The sight of her old client makes her freeze. Gloss glances at her warily but doesn't move. He merely grasps her hand tighter as if he's trying to impart her with some of his strength, though he isn't sure if he's got much left to make it worthwhile. His heart skips a beat in his chest as he glowers over at the man who has bought both him and Elara for the night.

He's wearing a fluffy black robe, and it looks like that's about it. Gloss clenches his jaw.

The Peacekeepers don't do or say anything at all. They merely sit back and flick through the TV as if this whole thing is utterly boring to them, and leave the Victors to their misery without batting an eye. Meanwhile, the client smiles in an almost eager manner, and reaches his hand out as he catches Elara's gaze.

"Elara, darling. It's been too long," he says, and gestures for them to go to him.

Gloss bites his tongue. This client clearly knows Elara, which can only mean that he's bought her before. Perhaps he is a regular of hers. Perhaps he's stolen many nights from Gloss, trying to claim the woman at his side as if he has any right to even make an attempt.

Elara smiles a wane, shaky smile, and murmurs, "…Magnus."

The man grins broadly. He puts his hand on Elara's shoulder and chuckles, "I'll bet you didn't expect it was me, did you?" He glances over at Gloss and clears his throat before adding, "Mr. Augustine. A pleasure."

Gloss's lip curls up at the word 'pleasure'. He doesn't say anything in return, and Magnus coughs awkwardly.

"Well, shall we?" he wonders, gesturing towards the room that opens up behind him. It is the bedroom, and Gloss can just about see the edge of the large mattress that cuts into his vision.

He growls, "Might as well get it over with," and storms into the room, wrestling his jacket off as he goes.

Magnus raises his eyebrows at him and holds an arm out to Elara. She gingerly slides her hand into the crook of his elbow, and he leads her into the room. He shuts the door softly behind him, locks it for good measure, and then turns back to face the Victors who are waiting for him. When he realizes that Gloss is already forcing off the expensive button down shirt he was forced to wear, Magnus laughs, "Not that I'm complaining, my dear, but there's no need for all that. I've no intention of making use of your services tonight."

Gloss turns his head to stare at him. So does Elara, so is standing awkwardly in the middle of the room between the two men.

"…What?" he demands, and steps forward in an almost threatening manner, as if he thinks that Magnus is mocking them.

Magnus purses his lips and sighs, glancing over at Elara. "I've spent many nights with you Elara, it's true. I won't pretend to be a saint. I like a good night of debauchery just like the next man, but – oh, well, I fell head over heels for you two in the Quell. That kiss in the jungle – it was incredible. I think your hidden love affair is so romantic."

Magnus shrugs and slips his pockets into the robe he's wearing. He smiles at Gloss and coyly adds, "I can see why Elara can't get enough of you, my dear. You're truly a sight." His eyes dip over the revealed skin of Gloss's chest, until the Victor growls and pulls his shirt together.

Elara frowns in confusion and says, "So…you don't want to…be with us?" She isn't sure how phrase such a question. It isn't something she ever thought she'd have to ask.

Magnus shakes his head and chuckles, "I don't want to be with you, darling. No – tonight, I'm content if you're with each other. I'll just let you enjoy yourselves."

The thin slip of relief that had begun to work itself over her nervous heart shutters out. She stares at Magnus with wide eyes, and then turns to Gloss as if she isn't sure she understands correctly. Gloss is too busy clenching his jaw as he watches Magnus flit over to an armchair in the corner, leaning back and crossing his legs as he reaches for a bottle of wine.

He pours himself a glass and glances over at the Victors, who haven't moved an inch. Raising an eyebrow, he trills, "Don't mind me, my dears. You won't even notice I'm here at all."

He takes a sip of wine, and Gloss's hands turn to fists at his side. When he turns to face Elara, he looks pale and drawn, his eyes cast with what almost appears to be resignation. Elara swallows at his expression and closes her eyes. He doesn't move at all, so she takes it upon herself to step up to him and slowly push his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders.

He exhales with a jerk but doesn't try to stop her as she undresses him. He can feel Magnus's eyes drinking in the sight of his revealed flesh from the corner, so he closes his eyes and tries to focus only on Elara's touch. She is very hesitant as she drags her fingers down to undo his trousers. It takes her longer than usual to unzip them and push them off his hips, because she's shaking.

When he stands in front of her naked, he takes her arms and turns them around so that her back is facing Magnus. He's not sure if this is better or worse than what he had prepared himself for. At least he doesn't have to watch another man touch her, but – the constant weight of that stare on them is enough to make his wariness increase tenfold. Even as he clenches his jaw and pulls her dress off her figure, he has no idea how he's going to be able to do this. He usually feels the brush of arousal with this woman no matter where they are, but tonight he feels only the harrowing sensation of manipulation and prostitution, and every other disgusting thing that catapults through the air between them.

They are not making love tonight. This time, they are puppets acting out a scene for another's pleasure.

When he guides her to the bed and falls into her, he tries to keep her eyes on him. Tries to imagine that they are alone in his apartment like so many other nights. Tries to erase the sight of that man from their vision as he tilts Elara's face to his and kisses her. And – he doesn't complain when her nails dig into his shoulders fiercely, because the bite of pain that accompanies it is better than the emotionless nature of this act that they are performing.

It has never been this way before, but Gloss supposes that nothing ever stays the same in the Capitol, where everything that is wholesome and pure withers away into dust.

* * *

It happens again.

And again.

Magnus isn't the only client that buys them, but he's the only one that is content to watch. The others…well, they are more interested in their own pleasure than Gloss or Elara's. It is a pain like no other, and Gloss is wondering if it will ever end.

Elara closes her eyes and tries to ignore it. She tries to ignore it all – the purring hum of the clients beneath her, the way her body moves over them, the shallow breath that leaves Gloss's throat as they fist their hands around his skin and claw their way down his back. They both try, but neither Gloss nor Elara succeeds.

The shame that buffets through them is too intense for them to ignore it all.

One night when it's over, and the client leaves, they sit together on the edge of the mattress like strangers. Something between them has been ruined. They don't think they can go back to the way they were before. There is a jagged nature of their connection now, as if it is no more than pieces of glass broken from a window that has remained barely intact for years.

"I'm sorry," Gloss croaks on one of these evenings while they wait for the Peacekeepers to come collect them and for that man to bring them back to their cells in the prison.

Elara looks at him from the corner of her eye, but doesn't turn to face him completely. She is too ashamed to. She thinks she'll never be the same person in his eyes again.

"…Me too," is all she whispers, and they fall silent.

In the silence, he hunches over and puts his hands to his face and tries to push back his tears. He loathes this form of weakness, but he is so desperate these days that he can't stop them from coming. When Elara sees, she doesn't hesitate to pull him into her arms and wrap him up against her, and suddenly it's as if the whole night hadn't even happened.

He buries his face into her neck and clutches at her shirt and heaves, "I can't save you from this…"

The broken words make her cry, too. She swallows tightly and shakes her head. And then she says something that rather takes him off guard, because he is not expecting the lilt of those ardent words in this room that has seen so many damaged and repugnant things happen between them.

Against his head she breathes, "I love you, Gloss."

It's the first time she's spoken the words aloud. The first time in eight years that she's allowed them to brim to the surface. The moment she says them, she wishes she could take them back. How can she say that when they are sitting on the edge of this bed that had just seen such wicked acts? How can she tell him she loves him when their future is grim and harrowing and they will never be able to love each other the way they have always yearned to do?

Gloss draws away to look at her, eyes shining with tears and a sorrow that cannot be put into words alone – only felt, as one might feel the harrowing movement of the wind through barren trees – and he chokes, "Even after this?"

Elara wipes her cheeks and sobs, "It doesn't matter what they make us do. I'll still love you."

His mouth quivers. He bends his body into hers and holds her so tightly that it's like he's trying to press his very soul against hers.

"I love you Elara," he breathes against her cheek. "I love you so fucking much."

She cries against him as he tilts her face to his and kisses her chastely, just a brush of his lips over hers. And even though this hotel suite has already seen so many horrors and so many irreparable moments take place between them, this one is a little less terrible.

But nothing lasts in the Capitol. Nothing good, anyway.


	53. The quiet tide of stillness so renown

**Chapter Fifty Three | The quiet tide of stillness so renown**

"_That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds,_

_Which too untimely here did scorn the earth."_

_2.6, 116-117 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Elara's father had a wonderful singing voice. He would sing her and Amelia to sleep when she was a young girl. Her mother would idle by the threshold of her bedroom door, head leaning against the wooden panel of it with her eyes closed. Sometimes she would sway to the tune. A few times, her father had even dragged her into a dance right there in the center of the bedroom, and Amelia would jump up off the bed and join in, twirling over the carpet with ungainly enthusiasm as their parents laughed and spun around her._

_Amelia would never fall asleep right away. It was something that often aggravated Elara, especially when she started school and had to be up early. Her younger sister's nighttime chatter was endless. Her curiosity knew no limitations. Sometimes Elara would get so fed up with her that she'd playfully smother her with her pillow, but it would only make Amelia squeal with laughter and noisily kick at her._

_Still, at other times, Elara would humor her._

"_What makes wind, Lara?" she asked once, her small seven year old voice bright and clear from the other side of the room._

_Elara had sighed into her pillow and muttered, "Magic."_

_Her response had made Amelia giggle._

_At age fifteen, Elara had not always been very interested in appealing to her little sister. Amelia was a wild child even then, always finding trouble as if it was her lot in life. She had always been talented in sparking mischief wherever she went._

"_Magic?" she'd repeated, throwing her arms over her head and kicking her covers off. She had laughed for a moment before saying, "I thought you were smart, Lara!"_

_Elara had grumbled in annoyance and had tiredly snapped, "Go to sleep, Amelia."_

_Her sister had just moaned and whined, "I'm not tired. Is magic real?"_

_With an exasperated groan, Elara rolled over, fluffing her pillow a bit before falling back onto it with a sigh. When she hadn't answered immediately, Amelia had filled the silence with more of her chatter._

"_Mama says that magic is science that we don't know yet. She says that someday, we'll be able to fly like birds and breathe under water. I want to fly. Do you, Lara?"_

_Elara grumbles, "No. I don't want to fly. Go to sleep."_

_Amelia had just snickered, but thankfully fell silent. For a few minutes, anyway, until she appeared on the edge of Elara's bed and had jumped on top of her with a loud laugh._

_Elara had always been surprisingly patient with Amelia. And even though she had been tired and grumpy, she had merely sighed and opened her covers so that her younger sister could snuggle into them._

"_Do you think mama loves daddy?" Amelia asks her after a while._

_Elara had sleepily responded, "Of course. Why would you ask something stupid like that?"_

_Her sister had shrugged, legs kicking out beneath the covers as she often used to do. One of her feet connected with Elara's shin, but Elara had just rolled her eyes at her antics._

_Amelia hadn't said anything for a while after that, and Elara had begun to drift off to sleep. That was when her sister rolled over to look at her and whispered, "Do you want to be in love, Lara?"_

_Elara had hummed quietly, her sleepy mind spinning with the innocent question for a moment before slowly murmuring, "…Sure. Don't you?"_

_Amelia had choked out a disgusted noise. "No way! Boys are gross. I saw Terrance McCannon picking his nose during class last week."_

_Elara had snorted quietly at the words and had sighed, "I'm going to marry a scientist and live in the Grid."_

_Amelia hummed. Then, with all the solemnity of a child, she had sat up and turned to her sister to say, "As long as he's like daddy, I guess it's okay. Daddy isn't so bad, for a boy."_

_Elara had laughed at her and pulled her back down, throwing the blankets back over her with an indulgent smile. As aggravating as her younger sister often was, Amelia had always been a miniature sun in her life. Without her, her childhood would have been so very different._

"_I'll keep that in mind, Amelia," she had responded, but it's funny, really, how the love that she ended up finding wasn't like her father at all, in any way._

"_Do you think you're gonna be Reaped this year, Lara?" Amelia had whispered after a moment, her voice still solemn and quiet._

_Elara had just shaken her head confidentially and replied, "No. Neither of us will ever get Reaped. We don't need to apply for the Tesserae."_

_It's funny how wrong she had been about so many things, back then. Funny how the trajectory of her life, which had been so set, had been ripped from its foundations so quickly. Funny how she hadn't realized just how much she had adored the little girl at her side until it was too late._

* * *

They kick him. Punch him. Throw him around until he can do nothing but stumble against the walls of his cell and surrender to it. He hits his head so hard against the stone that he is in a daze, drifting in and out of consciousness as the darkness puckers his vision into shards. For a while, he thinks that he won't ever wake up again, but he does.

Oh, he does.

"No more," he gasps, voice muffled against the stone floor. He's exhausted. He's in far more pain than he's ever been in before. He hadn't known that a person could be in such pain. This agony is a never-ending nightmare.

"No more, he says," one of the men laugh, before grasping his hair and forcing his head back into the bucket of water that they had dragged in earlier. He struggles weakly, tries to push himself up. His fingernails dig into the edges of the bucket so hard that they crack, but the man is stronger. Spending so much time down here has made Gloss weak.

Just when he thinks he can't go another second without air, the man drags his head back up and watches him heave, gasping loudly as the oxygen spirals through him with so much force that he is dizzy. He has all of two seconds to breathe before he's being shoved back down.

"Would you prefer that we do this to your girl?" the man asks when he drags Gloss back up again nearly a full minute later. His fingers are tight in Gloss's hair, but he hardly feels the pain the springs up over his scalp from the hold. All he hears are the man's words and the very real threat in them.

He rattles, "No – no." His chest his heaving so quickly that he's afraid he might collapse.

The man scoffs, eyeing Gloss as if he thinks the Victor is the most repulsive creature he's ever seen, and growls, "She calls for you. When one of those lowlifes goes to her cell and fucks her, she calls your name. I think it's because she's trying to pretend that it's you."

His heart clenches with thunderous despair and Gloss gasps out a breath that is edged with pain. He closes his eyes tightly, water dripping down and collecting on his chest. He feels the man's fingers dig into his skull; feels the chill of the air shiver through him; feels the peculiar thud of his own heartbreak shatter through him with such intensity that he can't do anything but kneel there.

"Those men are very rough," the man murmurs after a long moment spent studying Gloss's reaction. His eyes flicker with dull interest, as if he finds said reaction to be somehow amusing. "…Personally, I'm shocked that they even want to fuck her. Who wants to fuck a broken girl?"

Gloss grits his teeth and tries to shove the man off of him with a growling, "Shut up." It doesn't work, though. The man just sends him a scoffing smirk and shoves him back, and because Gloss is so weak, neither of them is surprised when he's sent flying against the edge of the bucket with a hard, cringing thud.

"Maybe I should find out what's so appealing about fucking a Victor," the man says, and the words make Gloss so furious that he finds some hidden well of strength within him as he throws himself at the man and sinks his fist into his stomach.

"SHUT UP!" he yells, punching the man hard in the nose.

The door of his cell flies open and several Peacekeepers enter it. They immediately haul him back, shoving him against the wall as the man slowly rises to his feet. The sight of his cracked nose and bloody face makes Gloss viciously proud…

Until the man laughs and says, "Bring him to Winston's cell."

And the horror that Gloss feels clawing its way up his throat nearly threatens to ruin him entirely.

When he's dragged into the cell, the horror only grows. Elara looks up at him with wild eyes. Gloss can barely look at her. Just the sight of her torn clothes and hollow gaze is unbearable, but when she lurches forward with a crazed, "What are you doing to him?", he thinks it couldn't get any worse.

How wrong he is.

The man steps into the cell with a smug look on his face. He casts a glance at Elara and nods to one of the Peacekeepers, who quickly steps over to her and hauls her back. Gloss hears her head hit the wall with a sickening crunch and he is barely able to push down the growl that threatens to work its way into existence. This abuse is a wrenching thing; he could never have imagined it before, but he should have.

He should have known that this would happen. Happy endings? Those things don't exist around here. He's a Victor. He's not allowed to have happiness, and he should have shut Elara down the first moment she had brought him to the rooftop and wove that beautiful image of their future in District 13. He should have told her to never think of it again. He should have never agreed to give her this false hope.

Because it is false. Everything in this rotting place is false.

His mind is spinning when the Peacekeepers tie his wrists together and push the rope into a hook that's hanging down from the ceiling. His arms stretch upward with the height that his body is now being forced to accommodate. His chest heaves and he tries to block out the sound of Elara's struggles, but he can't stop himself from looking over at her. He immediately wishes he hadn't. Her eyes are frenzied. The blue in them are clearer than normal because they're full of watery tears that she hasn't yet allowed herself to shed.

"Your man is being a bit too stubborn for my liking," the man drawls, directing his words to Elara with a vengeful smirk. Gloss's back is to him, so he isn't sure why Elara inhales sharply a moment later. He almost doesn't want to know what horror he's about to experience. What torture is about to be brought down upon him.

"Don't hurt him," Elara begs, and Gloss bites his cheek hard. Elara Winston never begs. She's far too strong for that.

He tries to empty his face of any fear he might be feeling when he looks over at her and hoarsely says, "Don't struggle, Elara." He wants to tell her that it'll be okay, but he can't bring himself to lie like that. If she can hold herself strongly and not fight against this, then at least he'll be able to take the brunt of this punishment. He will take it all, for her.

Her lip quivers and he looks away, hands clenching around the ropes that bind them to the hook. Behind him, the man chuckles.

"How sweet," he mocks, and steps around Gloss's form. When Gloss sees what he's holding, his jaw clenches tightly. The man drags the coiled whip over his abdomen and up his chest until it catches underneath his chin. He tilts it up and smirks, "Even now, you want to protect her."

Gloss glares down at him. When he spits in his face, the man grimaces only a bit before reaching up to wipe the spittle off and sigh, "You're going to regret tying yourself to her, you know. It's a weakness that I'm only too happy to exploit."

Gloss doesn't respond. He only turns to glare at the wall as the man steps back and nods to one of the Peacekeepers. A moment later, his shirt is being ripped in two, exposing his back. The man lifts one of the frayed edges and flips it casually to the side. When he reaches out to caress the revealed skin, Gloss snarls, "Just do it, then."

The man clicks his tongue and hums. Elara shakes her head.

"Don't hurt him – hurt me instead," she gasps, trying to push herself forward. Gloss watches her out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't turn. She scrabbles uselessly at the Peacekeeper that holds her down, and cries, "Take me instead," again and again until Gloss has enough of it.

He grits out, "Shut up, Winston." He still doesn't look at her. He doesn't think he can.

The man laughs at the desperate exchange and steps back. The whip uncoils. Gloss closes his eyes when he hears it drag against the floor.

"Give him something to bite down on," he orders one of the Peacekeepers. "We still need him to talk."

There's a shuffling, and then a Peacekeeper steps around to pry Gloss's mouth open and shove a strip of leather between his teeth. Gloss struggles the whole way, gagging against the foul taste of it and trying not to wonder at how long it's been down here.

"I think you understand how this works," the man muses, tracing over the handle of the whip in an almost idle manner. He glances at Gloss's yet untouched back and says, "If you tell us what we want to know, then the punishment stops. It's a very simple concept, you see."

Gloss just scoffs around the leather and remains silent. The man sighs. When he pulls his arm back, Elara whimpers against the Peacekeeper's hold, and Gloss closes his eyes.

He's never been whipped before, but he soon finds out why they say it's a torture fit for criminals. The first crack of the whip digs into his back and tears it open. The flawless skin is broken immediately, scorched with an angry red mark that begins to bleed. The red droplets dance down the untouched skin like tears, until their path is halted by another mark. And another. And another. The pain rattles through him so intensely that he is glad to have the leather in his mouth, because he thinks he would have already bit his tongue off if it hadn't been there.

Elara starts to cry. The sound of her sobs is worse than the torture. Her bearing witness to this act is a torment that goes well beyond the act itself, which is precisely why the man had brought him here to carry it out. It isn't just to weaken him by reducing him in such a way before the woman he loves; it's to weaken her. If the man hopes that Elara will talk, though, he's wrong.

Maybe it's because she's stronger than she currently looks. Maybe it's just because she can't say a single word around the sobs that close her throat up.

He bites down on the leather but can't stop the painful grunts that tear through him every now and then, when the whip comes down hard on his back and opens the skin of it even more. He stops counting how many lashes he receives. He thinks it's probably better that he doesn't know. All he knows is that they keep coming, ripping open new skin and deepening the marks that are already there.

His head falls forward after a while, when his strength begins to sap away from him and he can't hold it up any longer. It falls between his arms just as the rest of his body falls, until he is only upright because of the hook that catches his weight. He tries to push himself back onto his feet but it requires a strength that he doesn't think he has.

Blood pours over him. He can feel it soak into his clothes. He can feel it drip to the floor. Sometimes, a particularly hard lash makes it splatter in crimson droplets on the walls. His blood is everywhere and it keeps coming.

The man doesn't seem to care. He's breathing heavily behind Gloss. It takes a certain macabre strength to bear a whip continuously like this, without pausing to stop. It requires strong arms and a stronger countenance to bring this ruination upon another. If Gloss had less of a soul, he might've been impressed.

And then, suddenly, the whip stops.

Gloss barely notices. His back is searing. He can hardly breathe around the leather. He isn't sure he cares.

The man steps around him and emotionlessly studies him. He reaches out to grab Gloss's chin and lurch it up, raising an eyebrow at the way his exhaustion fogs his eyes over. All Gloss can see are the droplets of his own blood splattered over the man's clothes. Then, after watching him for a long moment, the man jerks the leather out of his mouth and demands, "What are the rebels planning?"

Gloss stares at him for a long moment, wondering if he's actually conscious or if the world has always spun the way it is spinning now, with such nauseating intensity. Then the question slips past the spinning and into his mind, and he chuckles at it. The man clenches his jaw at Gloss's reaction.

"I will whip you until I see bone," he growls at him, digging his fingers into Gloss's face. "Tell me what I want to know or this will never end."

Gloss just heaves out another chuckle. His eyes slip closed, too weak to keep them open, and he croaks, "…Do you think…you're strong enough…for that?"

The mocking question makes the man so furious that he stuffs the leather into Gloss's mouth without a word and shoves his head away roughly. When he lifts the whip back up and cuts it into Gloss's back with vicious fury, Gloss grunts miserably and falls forward. His strength has abandoned him entirely.

Elara is crying so intensely that she can only sink down the wall as she watches him stumble. He would be on the ground right now if it isn't for the hook that holds him up. His arms strain from the force of it, but the pain that comes from the position is fleeting compared to the increased vigor in which the man takes the whip to his back.

He thinks he loses conscious for a while. His head drops forward. His vision blackens. The pain, though – that doesn't leave. It is eternally trapped against his skin, and even the cadence of darkness cannot take it away.

And then, finally, the man growls in frustration and throws the whip to the side. Its bloody coil falls to the corner of the cell. He barks, "Let him down. That's enough for now."

He moves his arm, circling his shoulder as he watches the Peacekeepers untie Gloss and let him drop heavily to the floor. They don't try to catch him as he falls. He hits the ground hard, and lays there in a crumpled mess, not moving. They don't try to drag him away either, nor do they try to stop Elara when she edges towards him.

The man stares as she gingerly reaches out to touch Gloss's head, and scoffs, "We'll leave them alone for a while. Perhaps it will make them rethink their silence." Then he turns on his heel and leaves, taking the Peacekeepers with him. The cell swings shut.

Elara's fingers flutter over Gloss, but she doesn't dare touch him lest she bring more pain to his ruined back. She wipes at her tears but they don't stop falling, and Gloss is far too exhausted to do anything but lay there and bleed out on the floor of her cell.

Elara just reaches out to hold his hand, and stays with him until he passes out.

They drag him away a few hours later, but he's so bloody and broken that he hardly even seems to be aware of it.

* * *

Days pass. Elara and Gloss spend them in their cells, until night falls. They don't have clients every single night, but most of them are spent in that penthouse suite, servicing clients that paid for them. They are auctioned off like cattle, and they are always together. It is a nightmare more grotesque than the torture that they experience during the daylit hours.

It doesn't lessen despite the onset of their clients, but the man in charge of the sessions does keep them separated more and more. Perhaps he decides that having them together during the night is torture enough. Perhaps he just enjoys the act of inflicting individual torment on them.

It isn't so terrible. Elara prefers the physical pain over the emotional scarring that the clients leave behind. Or so she thinks, until one day her cell door is thrown open and two Peacekeepers push a girl into it. A girl that is very familiar to Elara Winston.

"Amelia?" she croaks, and stumbles up. Her younger sister takes one look at her and throws herself forward; a nervous wreck of energy that catapults into Elara's weak frame like a thunder clap.

"Elara – oh my god. You're alive. You're alive," she cries, hugging her so tightly that her body screams in pain. But Elara doesn't push her off or try to stop her. The relief she feels at the sight of Amelia is short lived. Fear quickly overtakes it.

Elara grapples her sister behind her and spits, "What do you want with her? Haven't you done enough already?"

The question is directed to the man who she has come to know quite well over the last few weeks of being trapped in the Capitol. He is the harbinger of pain, and the fact that he brought Amelia here makes Elara more afraid than anything else they could do to her.

"Mm," the man hums, glancing over at the younger girl with dark eyes. "I thought you'd be happy to see her. Did you think she was in District 13?"

Elara swallows tightly. Behind her, Amelia grasps her arm and stutters, "They brought me here last night. I was so worried, Elara. I thought you were dead."

The sound of her sister's voice edged over with tears has her turning around and taking her into her arms. Amelia falls into her with a whimper. Her body shakes so hard that it makes Elara shake too, just by holding her. She's like a leaf in a hurricane, bent over by harsh winds.

"Shh," Elara whispers, stroking her hair with feeble fingers. "It'll be okay. I'm not dead, see? You'll be fine…"

But she knows even then that she won't be. As if to prove the thought correct, the man laughs behind them and snarks, "What a sweet sight you both make. I wish you didn't have to go and make this any harder for yourself, Winston. This is your last chance to tell me what I want to know."

Elara stiffens and spins around, shallowly gasping, "You can't hurt her. She's my sister."

The man smiles a slow smile, his mouth curling up at the edges as he coldly appraises her.

"So she is," he murmurs, and snaps his fingers at the Peacekeepers. When they step forward to grab Amelia's arms and pull her to the center of the cell, Elara is too weak to stop them. Her sister is ripped from her grasp and Elara is pushed into the wall and held there by one of the guards. And even though Amelia struggles too, she is no match against the Peacekeepers.

The man sighs, "Now. I have your sister. I have your lover. I have everything and everyone you hold dear. There's only one thing left to do."

Elara shakes, watches him take a knife from his belt. He spins it around his fingers and looks over at her with sharp eyes.

"Tell me what you know," he demands.

Elara just keeps shaking.

It seems to anger him so much that he yells, "TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW."

Amelia starts to cry. Elara's only ever seen her cry once or twice in the last few years. Her younger sister is too rebellious for that. She's far stronger than Elara. She turns to her older sister and whimpers, "Just tell him, Elara. You'll be able to come back to District 5 with me if you do. They said so."

Elara cries silently against the wall and shakes her head. She knows that's a lie. She'll never leave the Capitol again. Not for a long, long time. Even if she does tell them what they want to hear and they do spare Amelia, they will not let her return home. She's trapped here like a lab rat. All hope of freedom has long since vanished like smoke between her fingers, and it doesn't matter how hard she tries to grasp onto it. She can never hold it.

The man grabs onto Amelia's hair and drags her head back. The sight has Elara jumping forward with a loud, "No – don't hurt her." When the man lifts his knife to Amelia's throat, she screams, "DON'T HURT HER!"

He pauses and looks at her, and very calmly says, "I will kill her if you don't tell me what you know."

Elara lets out a desperate breath and hoarsely asks, "What do you want to hear? That I was in on the plan? That I want the Capitol to fall?" She glares fiercely and laughs, "I do. I want this entire fucking city demolished, and you along with it."

The man snorts, "I want to know what the rebels are planning. Surely you can answer that in order to save your sister's life."

Elara's expression crumbles. She shakes her head and wipes at her cheeks and desperately tells him, "I don't know – they didn't tell me their future plans!" She lurches forward when the knife returns to Amelia's throat.

Her sister cries, "Just tell them Elara. Tell them."

But Elara can't tell them. She can't tell them because she doesn't know. Haymitch had only given her the bare skeleton of the plan for the arena, but he hadn't delved into the plans for later. She has no idea what District 13 is going to do. She can't give this man the answers that he wants to hear, because she doesn't have them.

And yet –

Amelia.

She purses her lips and heaves, "They're going to attack the Capitol."

She doesn't know if it's true, but if it can save her sister…

The man barks out a laugh and hisses, _"Of course they are._ When are they going to attack?" He draws the knife so close to Amelia's throat that a line of blood drips down into the fabric of her collar.

Elara pauses, and then cries, "I don't know! They didn't tell me anything – _no!_ Please don't – "

The man presses the knife hard into Amelia's throat and growls, "I'm tired of your lies. I guess you haven't had enough pain yet."

Then he takes the knife and plunges it into Amelia's chest.

And Elara falls to her knees.

And watches her sister choke and crumble to the floor.

And when she sobs Amelia's name over and over again, Gloss pushes his face into his hands three doors down and grasps his hair so hard that he fears he might accidentally tear it from his scalp.


	54. Is made of violent thorns that prick

**Chapter Fifty Four | Is made of thorns that not so gently prick.**

"_I dreamt a dream last night._

_And so did I._

_Well, what was yours?_

_That dreamers often lie."_

_1.4, 50-53 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_She dreams of his touch, sometimes. It is a phantom thing; a wisp of warmth that presses into her before drifting away. She feels it color the spaces of her body, alighting over her spine and down her thigh. Sometimes when she misses him terribly, she dreams that he is with her in her bedroom in District 5, and he is gathering her up in his arms and kissing her solidly. Those dreams are the very best, because he does not feel quite so out of reach whenever she is graced with one._

_Sometimes, she dreams of making love to him. He is around her and inside her and everywhere all at once, until she wakes up and realizes that he isn't here at all. But – caught up in the press of her subconscious mind, she does not know it until her eyes flutter open and she realizes how cold she is when she is devoid of his touch; how lonely it is to sleep by herself and not lay tucked into the safe crevice of his body._

_Tonight, she does not dream of his kisses or his love. This time she dreams simply of him._

_She dreams that she is standing in a great desert. The vastness of time itself seems to play out at every angle around her. She feels at once lost to the whims of this world, and yet at the same time, so incredibly at peace. The sky is big and blue, and she feels as though she could fall right into it._

_Instead, she falls into him._

_His arms curl around her from behind, and Elara feels the warm press of his chest at her back. It is so vivid that she can smell the spicy cologne he wears sometimes, and feel the light brush of his breathing against her cheek when he tucks his chin over her shoulder. She scrambles to hold him, fingers latching around his wrist. Even dreaming, she is afraid of letting him go. Afraid that if she does, he will disappear on her like wisps of fog._

"_Do you like it here?" he asks her. The familiar tone of his voice is music. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, smiling._

"_I'd like anywhere as long as you're with me," she responds. He chuckles and the sound makes her cling to him harder, for it's almost too beautiful to be true._

_She knows it even then, in the press of her sleeping mind._

_His nose edges against her cheek as he turns his face into her, and just as he's tilting her chin towards him and leaning down to kiss her, Elara wakes up._

_She doesn't wake up with a jolt, but rather with a sob. Her eyes flutter open, chest heaving with an inhalation that makes her feel ragged and drowning. She gasps there on her mattress for several lengthy minutes before sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of her bed. The dream haunts her each time she closes her eyes, swirling with the memory of Gloss's arms. She can still feel his warmth against her back and his breath against her cheek. Some unconscious part of her is still waiting for his kiss._

_She yearns for it with every fiber of her being as she rocks forward and buries her head into her arms._

_Is this what love is? Her heart is a broken ragdoll that's been dragged through the mud. There are puddles spanning the length of her; they do not have a bottom. When she steps in one, she gets pulled under._

_She used to think that love was a pretty thing – a shimmering glass, a bright sun adrift in blue skies – but it isn't._

_It is the harrowing cry of a seagull swooping over an ocean and losing sight of land. It is a tempest of crashing notes spinning out of control – the First Violinist playing out of sync and ruining the rest of the orchestra, until nobody knows what they're playing anymore, and each sawing ragged note is an angry sound that scratches the air into pieces._

_It is a pain like no other, this love. Even now, as she sits in the dark of her room and silently sobs into her hands, she feels as though her chest is burning. There is a hollow sensation that perforates through her, as if her heart is merely a phantom that no longer exists within her ribcage. And she thinks that perhaps it doesn't, anymore, because –_

_Surely, if her heart exists anywhere at all, then it is a hundred miles away, buried deep in the sands of District 1._

* * *

Elara isn't sure if she sleeps, or if she merely drifts in and out of some strange piece of consciousness that is made entirely of her sister's bloody body. She pulls Amelia into her lap and rocks over her, crying her name until her voice is so hoarse that she can only groan in pain like a wild animal. She doesn't pull the knife out of her sister's body. She's afraid of the blood.

She hears Gloss's voice after a while. He's calling to her, shouting her name as if he's hoping that she still has the strength to respond to him. But she doesn't. She doesn't think she has any strength at all, anymore. She thinks that the only thing left for her to do is to curl up and die.

And yet – she's afraid of that, too. She's always been afraid of death, even when she had faced it down and pretended otherwise.

She cries until she has no tears left, and then she just silently sits there, clutching at Amelia's lifeless form and rocking back and forth as if she's trying to comfort the young girl. But – there is no comfort that can take this pain away. No solace that will erase the unquenchable horror that she had just witnessed. When she closes her eyes, she still sees the knife plunging into Amelia's body. Her fingers are still wet with the blood, but it is cold now against her skin and it has started to form a crusty layer over her fingers.

She sits there for an eternity. She could have stayed in that position until Death finally came to claim her, but apparently that particular wish will not come true tonight, because there are other plans that are to be fulfilled in these hazy hours of darkness. Plans that will steal from her the calm chill of Death's embrace.

She doesn't react at all when her cell door swings open. She merely stares down at Amelia's slack expression and doesn't stop rocking back and forth. She stops only when an unfamiliar voice mutters, "Christ…"

That's when she lifts her head, but what she sees is something that could never actually exist. There are three men in her cell, and they're all dressed in black combat gear and sport guns. The sight of them draws her from the dazed stupor that she's been in for what seems like forever, and she notices the sound of footsteps in the hall outside her cell. She hears orders being barked back and forth, and the muffled sound of other cells being opened, and she thinks it's very strange.

"Elara Winston?" one of the men asks, as if they do not know. She frowns at them in confusion until the soldier says, "We're here to take you to District 13. We don't have much time."

Elara just stares at them, and then turns back to Amelia without a word. If this is a test that the Capitol is conducting, then she will not grace this sick form of entertainment with a response. She doesn't have any words to give them. Her voice is shredded from hours of crying. She isn't sure she can even talk at all.

Her lack of a response seems to unsettle them, but it doesn't stop them from stepping forward to haul her up. The moment they pull her away from her sister, Elara seems to remember how to speak.

"Let go of me," she throatily sneers, struggling against the men who had grabbed her. Her movements are so erratic that she manages to pull herself away. She throws herself back down beside Amelia's body and dryly sobs, "Leave me be."

Her wish to remain with her sister goes unanswered, though. The soldier who had tried to haul her back steps forward again, but his path is blocked by another one who carefully approaches Elara's hunched form with a cautious look emblazoned over his face. He gingerly kneels down beside her and sighs, casting a solemn look at the dead girl that Elara is clutching. It is only a passing glance, really – just a brief look as he drags his eyes to the Victor he is trying to rescue – but he finds himself quickly looking back at the lifeless girl in surprise. His eyes snap to her chest, catching sight of the slightest shift of a breath.

Shocked, the man hovers over the girl and puts his hand above her mouth. Elara sends a barbed glare at him and weakly pushes him back with a scowling, "Don't touch her."

But the man just snaps back, "She's still alive. The girl is alive." Then, glancing over his shoulder, he barks, "Get a stretcher. _Now!"_

The other two men hurry to fulfill the order, but Elara is too busy staring at the soldier to notice the way they stumble from her cell. Her eyes are wide with unshed tears when she rattles, "She's alive? _Amelia is alive?"_ And then, as if her wits have well and truly been lost, Elara heaves her sister's name again and again as she hovers over her, eyes crazed and wild as she grips Amelia's arm tightly.

The soldier watches her cautiously, but doesn't do anything until the other men arrive with the stretcher. They set it down beside the girl and lift her up onto it. And then the soldier turns to Elara and says, "If you want her to survive, we have to get to 13 as quickly as possible."

Elara nods so fast that her neck aches from the strain. This time, she doesn't complain or try to stop the man when he helps her up, hauling her to her feet and throwing her arm over his shoulders to take some of her weight. Weeks of being in this place has made her as light as a feature. She's lost so much weight that she is little more than a pile of skin and bones, and the soldier barely feels her at his side as he half drags, half carries her through the hall.

"Gloss…? You've got him?" Elara mumbles as they reach the end of it. The soldier just grunts out an affirmative as he pauses to swing her into his arms and carry her up a flight of stairs.

There is a hovercraft on the roof. Elara is half convinced that she is dreaming as she boards it. The thrum of the engines beneath her feet almost feels like an illusion. It pulses through her body so vividly that she wonders if she's dreaming it all up. She had long ago lost hope that she would ever make it to District 13. But – when she catches sight of Gloss's passed out form on the other side of the hovercraft, she realizes that this must be true. This is reality after all.

"District 13…" she mumbles, collapsing into one of the seats that line the sides of the craft. She sees the other Victors too. Johanna. Peeta. Annie. They're all there. They're all alive.

She hadn't thought that she had any tears left, but as she sits there near her sister and clutches Amelia's hand in her own, she finds that she is quite wrong.

* * *

When Elara wakes up, she's in a hospital bed. When she had fallen asleep, she couldn't say. The last thing she remembers is keeping a vigil by Amelia's side on the hovercraft, and hearing the pulse of the engines on all sides of her, and battling down the intensity of her emotions as they threatened to keel her over.

She sits up a little too fast, and groans at the way her head spins nauseatingly.

"Elara," a voice greets, pressed into existence with a hopeful tone. It is a familiar voice. One that she never thought she'd hear again.

She opens her eyes even though the blinding white light of the hospital is harsh on her senses, and hoarsely groans, "Finnick? Is that you?"

She soon discovers that the Victor is sitting in a chair near her bed, and that he's wearing a grin that looks half broken, half eager. When she looks over at him and meets his eye, he reaches out to take her hand and squeezes it.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Winston," he jokes, and she nearly cries at the relief she feels.

It is a cloying sensation bred entirely from the fact that if Finnick is here, then she must be in District 13. She must be safe.

"Oh my god," she laughs even as tears begin to spill over the edges of her eyes. "Finnick. I thought I'd never see you again." She laughs again when he comes in to hug her, and weakly grasps at his shoulders as his familiar presence washes over her. In this foreign place, battling the confusion that strangles through her, Elara has never been so happy to see him in all her life.

"Yeah, me too," he tells her gently, and pulls back. His eyes are shining when he breathes, "Annie's here too. I've been so worried…I can't believe you're all finally here…" His voice is strained just so, and when he hastily reaches up to wipe away a tear that slips down his cheek, she is struck with the sight of him. He is not the same confidant Victor she's always known him to be, but then again, that is the nature of change. Nothing ever remains as it was, and people evolve to fit fate's alterations.

His words, though – they spin through her when her brain finally hears them, and the heart monitor that she's hooked up to beeps earnestly. She looks at him with crazed eyes and babbles, "Where's Amelia? Where is my sister?"

The reminder that the other Victors are here only serves to evoke the memory of Amelia's lifeless form. She finds, suddenly, that she can't breathe very well. Finnick looks worried. He grasps her hands tightly and opens his mouth to respond, but another voice cuts him off before he can.

"Amelia is fine," Cashmere drawls from the end of Elara's bed. "She's still being treated, but the doctors say she'll live."

The sight of the District 1 Victor sends Elara into a flurry. She croaks out a gasping, "Cashmere!" and lurches forward. The wild movement would surely have sent her right to the floor had Cashmere not swept in and caught her, grasping her weak form and hauling her back onto the edge of the bed.

She rolls her eyes at Elara and snorts, "Yes, I'm alive too. Did you think otherwise?" Still, despite the rough words, Cashmere's tone is soft and her eyes are relieved. She threads her fingers through Elara's hair with gentle intent, and doesn't stop her friend when she throws her arms around her with a heaving sob.

"Yes," Elara gasps. "I thought you were dead. Christ, I – " She cuts herself off and rattles, "Gloss – "

"He's fine," Cashmere tells her firmly, and pries her off before gently pushing her back into the pillows. Finnick watches silently as Cashmere _tsks_ and fusses with the blankets, pulling them back over her friend with a care that she rarely shows. She glances at Elara and sighs, "He hasn't woken up yet. The doctors are keeping him under for now. His back is…it's completely shredded…"

The reminder of Gloss's horrific injuries has Elara shaking down into the mattress with a frown. She can still see him behind her eyes – the way he had fallen forward when they had released his wrists from the hook he had been tied to. He'd collapsed in a heap on the ground, too weak to even break his fall. Too weak to even make a sound. The last time she'd seen him, he was being dragged out of her cell, pulled by two Peacekeepers like a ragdoll.

She shudders and sits up again with intent. "I need to see him. And Amelia."

Finnick pushes her back down with a staunch. "You need rest, Elara. You aren't exactly in a fit state yourself."

Cashmere backs him up when she nods, "They're both going to be fine. Don't strain yourself, Elara. I just got you back and I don't need to be worrying about you now."

Elara groans and argues, "But – "

"I've been watching over him," Cashmere interrupts, and then adds, "For now, just let me worry about my idiotic brother. I'll check on your sister while you're recovering and update you on everything. Just – rest, okay? Don't be stubborn."

The words make Elara smile despite the worry that clings to her. She slants her eyes up to Cashmere's and snorts, "Stubborn?", as if she's offended by the term. All three of them know that it's the best word to describe Elara Winston, though.

Finnick rolls his eyes. "I'm going to see Annie." He stands up, pauses, then points at Elara's bed with a firm expression. "You. Stay," he tells her, as if he's speaking to a dog. Elara makes a face at him that he immediately reciprocates.

"Fine," she grumbles after a moment of this, and sighs. Cashmere smirks victoriously and nods. Finnick just chuckles as he strides out of the room.

"So…District 13," Elara muses as she gets comfortable. Her body is aching somewhat, but she has no doubt that the majority of her wounds are being covered by painkillers. Walking around in her current state is probably not the best idea, but she is absolutely going to find her sister the first moment she feels well enough to get up.

Cashmere probably knows it, too, because she just sighs and takes the seat that Finnick had just vacated. "It's crazy, right?" she asks, propping her legs up on the side of Elara's bed. "When I woke up here, I thought I was dreaming. And then when I realized that both you and my brother were in the Capitol…" her expression falls into a stormy look that could either be anger or concern – perhaps a little bit of both – and Cashmere mutters, "The first moment you're feeling better, I'm going to thrash you, Winston."

Elara can't help but smile at this. The grin that spreads over her face feels foreign. She can't remember the last time she's smiled.

Cashmere stares at her heavily, and slowly asks, "…What happened, Elara? How did Gloss get whipped to the edge of his life?"

The question has Elara's smile dimming once more. It's replaced by a harrowed expression that doesn't bode well. The sight of it has Cashmere sitting up a little straighter. She stares at her friend cautiously, unsure if she truly wants to know the answer or not.

But Elara only mumbles, "They wanted to know the rebel's plans…they did everything they could think of to make us talk."

She doesn't want to relive the memories of that cell, or the penthouse suite, or the horror of those moments spent between the two. She doesn't want to think about the man who had been in charge of her torment, or the desperation she had felt whenever her and Gloss were forced to get on that elevator and wait in that bedroom and do whatever their client wanted them to do. She thinks that she might be nauseous if she thinks about it too hard, so instead she just buries her face into the pillow and croaks, "I don't want to talk about it, Cash. I think…I think maybe I'll just try to get some sleep after all."

What does one say in response to that? Cashmere isn't sure. She doesn't know the full extent of what happened in the Capitol. She doesn't know what horrors Elara and Gloss had gone through. Maybe she doesn't want to know. Some things, after all, are better kept in the dark.

Cashmere just sighs and nods, "Alright. I'll let you rest."

She stands up and pauses for just a moment longer before sighing again. When she walks out of the room and closes the door behind her, Cashmere runs a hand through her hair and heads down the hall. The haunted look in Elara's eyes is not easily forgotten, especially when she steps into her brother's room and sits down beside his bed.

He's exactly how she'd left him a few hours before: broken, but alive. He's on his stomach, and his back is covered with bandages. The heart monitor beeps softly beside him, and even though the sight he makes is morbid at best, Cashmere finds comfort in the sound.

She gingerly takes his hand and sighs.

* * *

Amelia is alive. Elara can scarcely believe it, but it's true. Not even her imagination could recreate the sound of her whining voice as she complains about being cooped up in bed.

"I'm so bored," her younger sister scowls, staring up at the ceiling of her hospital room with a frustrated expression. The sight would normally make Elara roll her eyes and tell her to deal with it, but to be honest, all she feels is immense relief at the fact that her sister is still here.

"You were stabbed with a fucking knife," she tells her, though her tone is not as rough as the words make it seem. She pats Amelia's hand and says, "You need time to heal from an injury like that."

It's the first time that she's been allowed to walk around in days. Ever since their arrival in District 13, Elara's been confined to her bed. The doctor that's been treating her wounds had firmly told her that she had to stay there for the time being, until they could ween her off of the morphling that was, at the time, running through her system. Her wounds aren't nearly as bad as Gloss's, but her body had still needed the time to rest and recuperate. That realization had hit home when the nurse had started decreasing the dosage of painkillers. The pain that had been covered up prior to that moment had nearly staggered her.

That had been a week ago. In the time since, Elara's been cooped up in her own room. She knows the boredom that Amelia is experiencing, but she also knows that her little sister needs to rest.

Since entering the room several hours ago, Amelia had been nearly hysteric at the sight of Elara. The memories of that cell are crippling; it had taken some time to convince Amelia that she is unharmed, for the most part. Her injuries had been vast when she'd been admitted into the District 13 hospital, but the doctors say that she is doing much better. Not that Amelia had believed her, at first.

"I want to eat something besides jello," Amelia complains, and eyes Elara with a narrowed gaze. "…You can walk around. Bring me something from the cafeteria. They must have one around here somewhere."

Elara chuckles at the demand and wryly responds, "I haven't been allowed out of the hospital yet. All I'm eating is jello too, so stop whining."

Amelia glowers at her and she glowers right back, but there isn't any bite to the looks. Both sisters are far too relieved to be here, alive, to truly have a problem.

"How's Gloss?" Amelia mutters after a brief silence. She hasn't brought him up yet, even though she knows that he's also in District 13.

Elara pauses, glancing up at her sister. It should be an easy question to answer. Gloss is alive, he's safe, and he's recuperating. But – it isn't as simple as that. She wonders if it ever will be.

She looks down at her hands and twists them together in her lap as she slowly says, "…When I went to see him yesterday, he was really out of it. I don't even think he recognized me. He's still on morphling. The doctors are only just starting to decrease the dosage."

She had gone to visit him after breakfast, the moment the doctors had cleared her to walk around. She thought she's be alright once she saw him – that all the nightmares of the last few weeks would ease once she had physical proof that he was here, but…

It hadn't been easy to see him. She had sunk into the chair beside his bed and had taken his hand into hers and had been utterly devastated at the sight of him. The strong Victor who had always made her feel so safe and protected, who could make her smile even at her lowest, who made her life seem so much better than it really was…he had been so weak. He could barely even lift his arm. His eyes had fluttered open, but he hadn't seemed conscious of his surroundings at all, least of all that she had been there by his side.

Cashmere had come in soon after, and hadn't blamed her for needing to step out. She had told Elara to come back later – that he might be more aware if she stops in after lunch, but she hadn't been able to do it. The reason for her fear is just as devastating as the sight of him.

She feels this terrible sense guilt whenever she walks by his door. This feeling that everything that has happened to him in the last few weeks is her fault. If she hadn't convinced him to fight for her – if had just left well enough alone and didn't try to change the circumstances of her life – then perhaps he wouldn't be in the state that he's in now.

He wouldn't have been questioned. He's a Victor from District 1, the Capitol's favorite celebrity. They wouldn't have been suspicious of him at all if she hadn't gotten involved. Maybe he would have gotten off without any injuries or wounds. Maybe he wouldn't have to spend a week in the hospital pumped up on so much morphling that he doesn't even know who or where he is.

She hasn't mentioned her guilt to anyone. Cashmere would bite her head off and tell her to stop whining. She wouldn't understand because she doesn't know what happened to them in the Capitol. Elara still hasn't been able to tell her, and Cashmere's stopped asking. That's the good thing about Cashmere: she knows when to push, and when not to.

It doesn't change the fact that Elara feels like she's to blame for the physical and emotional scars that Gloss now has to bear.

Amelia isn't aware of her sister's turmoil. She merely thinks that her silence is due to the fact that Gloss is still not fully aware of himself. When she responds, her voice is purposefully light, but Elara knows it's only because Amelia wants to make her feel better without being overly obvious.

"…He'll wake up soon enough," she tells Elara, and then grins, "I can't wait to finally meet him. Cashmere is so cool – I'll bet he's even cooler."

At this, Elara quirks a smile. True to her word, Cashmere has been by Amelia's room several times over the last few days to check up on her. She's reported back to Elara on her healing process a number of times by now. It doesn't surprise her to hear that Amelia taken a shine to her. Cashmere just has this way about her, and Amelia is…well, Amelia has always had a rebel heart.

"She promised to show me a few moves with the sword," Amelia gushes, grinning ear to ear as her eyes shimmer excitedly. "Apparently Coin is looking for more soldiers, and – "

"Absolutely not," Elara cuts him swiftly, straightening her back. She's aware that she sounds like a mother hen, but it isn't as if there's anyone else who will look after her reckless younger sister. Slicing a firm look at her, Elara staunchly tells her, "You're too young to be a soldier. You're not joining the rebellion."

Amelia glowers at her. "But if I train hard enough – "

"No, Amelia," Elara says, and her sister rolls her eyes. With a sigh, Elara adds, "Besides, I have no idea if there's even going to _be_ a rebellion."

Amelia shrugs, "There will be. I heard that Katniss Everdeen is going to lead the rebels to war."

The information makes Elara pause. She eyes her sister and carefully wonders, "Where'd you hear that?"

Amelia sits up and chimes, "One of the nurses told me."

With a huff, Elara leans back in her chair and drawls, "Well I haven't heard anything yet."

Like clockwork, Amelia smirks, "That's because you have no friends."

Elara rolls her eyes. "Is that always your argument?"

Her sister just laughs, and Elara soon joins in. A part of her is still so relieved that Amelia is alive. She sits there near her bed and wonders how this stroke of luck had been able to blossom, when everything else had seemed so dismal and unsalvageable.


	55. I know not what eternity is like,

**A/N: Just a quick warning: The flashback scene contains a graphic sex scene, so feel free to skip that part if you'd like!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty Five | I know not what eternity is like,**

"_I dreamed that my lady came and found me dead_

_And breathed such life with kisses in my lips_

_That I revived and was an emperor."_

_5.1, 6-9 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

"_Mmm…don't stop," Gloss mumbles, muffled into the pillow. His head is turned to the side as he lays on his stomach. His voice is low and rumbling, and his eyes are closed. His body is completely relaxed, which is unusual. Gloss is very rarely at ease. His is in constant motion; a maelstrom of purpose. To see him like this is incredibly satisfying._

_Elara smiles in amusement as she looks down at him. Perched as she is atop his back, the expanse of his bared skin is like a map for her perusal – and peruse it she does. She's working her hands against his body, sinking into the tense muscle of his shoulder blades and removing the strain from his form. He was already at her mercy before she had even finished his shoulders, and now he's so relaxed that he looks like he's seconds from falling asleep._

_This hadn't been her plan, but when he'd started grousing about a sore shoulder, she figured it wouldn't be an awful way to spend her evening. After all, Gloss could complain her ear off if he is in the right mood. And – well, the fact that he's completely naked is nice, too._

_He has a beautiful body. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, bronze skin that seems to glow in the dim light. His muscular arms are drawn over his head, grasping the pillow he's resting on and stretching his back out. His diet and hygiene are immaculate – he's obsessed about his health – and it shows. She doubts there is an ounce of fat on him. The lines of his form are sweeping and fit; the very image of a practiced Career._

_Her fingers dip down his spine, thumbs sinking lightly around the bones before splaying her hands out over the sides of his back. As she digs her palms against him, she tells him, "You owe me for this, Gloss."_

_Not that she hadn't wanted to do it – she had been the one to offer, after all – but she wouldn't mind if he took the initiative to return the favor sometime soon._

_Into the pillow, Gloss lowly murmurs, "Mm…right now, I'd do anything to you asked, Winston."_

_At this, Elara smirks, massages her way down his lower back and glancing up at his face. His eyes are still closed, expression utterly relaxed. She chuckles quietly and says in a sarcastic tone, "Huh. Massages turn you into an agreeable man. I'll have to remember that."_

_He makes a sound in the back of his throat and lifts his hand to swat at her in retribution, but the effort is as halfhearted as it could possibly be, and his arm quickly drops to his side when Elara starts sinking her touch against his rear. The pleased sound he makes as she massages over him is very compelling. A bolt of warmth shoots through her, adding to the already blistering heat that has long since begun to spiral into her veins._

_She thinks it would be impossible not to be aroused right now. She's seeing a side of Gloss that she's never seen before: a part of him that doesn't seem to care for walls or boundaries, who has surrendered to her in a way he rarely ever does. She is in full control, and he hasn't even questioned it. It's not like this is the first time he's handed the reins to her, but usually he likes to put up a fight before he gives in. It isn't even the sight of him that has awoken her arousal though; it's the undercurrent of the atmosphere. The hidden things that are spinning in the air between them. The silent words that whisper through the spaces of the room._

_They are words that speak of trust and comfort. They paint a picture of familiarity the likes of which she has never felt before. This close intimacy has a multitude of layers, slanting across the shadows of her heart and stirring within her a most enticing satisfaction. Merely being in his presence like this is something that enthralls the deep parts of her._

_She moves her touch down the back of his thighs and calves, patiently massaging every muscle. She isn't usually so patient, but there is something in the atmosphere that demands it tonight. Something that she is only too happy to explore, for it is luxurious and divine and sumptuous, and she can't deny its presence so much as she could deny the gorgeous man that is currently being attended to._

_She hums out a laugh at the thought and thinks it's rather fitting. Gloss is like a cat sometimes – though he isn't very fond of the comparison. He is perfectly content to lay back and let her pleasure him in whichever way she wants to. Sometimes he has an almost regal way about him, and even though it's partially a joke meant to make her laugh, she suspects that it's a deeper aspect of his character than he sometimes lets on._

"_What is it?" he asks, referring to her quiet laughter. He is so relaxed that he almost sounds sleepy, and his words melt together even as they are uttered. It sends a shiver down her spine._

_She purses her lips to keep her smile at bay and allows herself a moment to just appreciate the feel of his skin as it is laid out before her. Her hands skim up his body, over his ass and back with a pampered enjoyment, and he lets out a fluttery sigh that tells her said enjoyment is reciprocated._

"_Nothing," she murmurs, and then taps his hip and tells him, "Roll over for me."_

_Gloss hums slowly does as she says, lifting himself up onto his elbows before rolling onto his back. He sinks into the pillows with a relaxed sigh, eyes still closed as he gets comfortable. His eyes don't stay closed for long though. When he hears Elara's sharp inhalation, he slants his gaze to her and smirks smugly. The smirk may have to do with the fact that he's rock hard, his cock swollen and erect – or it could have to do with the way Elara is staring at it in surprise, apparently not having expected this particular sight to greet her._

_She takes one look at his smirk and rolls her eyes. "I didn't do this to seduce you," she tells him stoutly. Her rebuttal doesn't stop her from laying her hands over his thighs though. It also doesn't stop her eyes from flashing with clear desire._

_Gloss's response to her is a scoffing, "What did you expect? You could seduce me with your eyes closed and I'd fall every time."_

_The sudden bout of sincerity makes her raise her eyebrows at him, forgetting momentarily about the very impressive erection he's currently sporting between his legs and instead turning her attention to his eyes. She studies them for a moment, somewhat taken aback at the softness in the hazel depths. He doesn't often deal in honesty. Not in such a willing way, anyhow._

"_Massages seem to be the answer to a lot of your mood problems," she says after a moment, voice wry and amused. She snickers when he glowers at her._

"_I do not have 'mood problems'," he mutters, and sits up to stack the pillows higher. When he leans back against them, he's half laying half sitting, and wholeheartedly smug when he adds, "Aren't you gonna continue?"_

_She gives him a look, but can't stop the amused smile from overcoming her face. It is the way he looks so smug and proud of himself that really sets her off. When she starts laughing, he quickly joins in._

"_You're so full of it," she tells him, but it doesn't stop her from taking him into her hand and giving him an experimental pump._

_The movement immediately makes his head drop into the pillows, body lax and still enveloped in that sleepy air from before. He's so incredibly hard beneath her fingers, and the blistering heat of his erection is quickly making her body burn with want. He sees it in her eyes and in her movements; feels it in the way she devours him with her gaze. If anything, it only makes him that much harder. His member twitches in her hand as arousal lifts the haze of his relaxation. Her touch transforms him from sleepy indulgence to stiff yearning._

_He reaches for her, opening his arms in a silent invitation, and Elara accepts the warmth of his body as she crawls into it. Gloss wraps her into his arms, his hands sliding up her back to unclasp the bra that's still secured around her. When he cups her breasts in his palms and rolls his thumbs over her taut nipples, her eyelids flutter._

"_You know what would make tonight even better than it already is?" he murmurs, mouth curving up at the corners as he looks down at her. He loves it when she perches herself over him like this, as if she doesn't belong anywhere but here. The weight of her body is an enchantment that spells him into a bliss he hadn't known existed, before her. Her warm skin and dark gaze is a symphony that he feels brimming up in his very soul._

_Elara hums curiously, lifting her eyebrows with wry amusement as his hands slip over the curve of her ass, delving beneath the thin fabric of her underwear. She already knows exactly what he's about to suggest. How could she not, when their hearts align in such a potent way? But even so, she can't help but wonder, "…What?", because she wants to hear him say it aloud. Wants to hear the low tones of his voice serenade her like only he can._

_He grins at her and it steals her breath. Her underwear gets hooked onto his wrists as he slides his hands down her ass and thighs, and she can't help but laugh softly as she lifts her body to accommodate its removal._

"_Feeling you around me," he whispers to her, voice pitched in deep desire. His chin tilts up, lips brushing just so over hers as he growls, "Watching you take your pleasure from me…having the heat of you burn me until it makes me come."_

_Her breath is a spluttering mess as he breathes these words against her. His lips brush over her skin, shifting from her mouth to her cheek to her jaw as he tosses her underwear over the side of the bed and heaves her closer. Like puzzle pieces fitting together with impeccable precision, she feels his erection slide between the crevice of her thighs and against her folds. It is like a smoldering ember that burns over their bodies as it alights into sudden flame._

_She almost can't breathe when he lifts his hand to her neck and curls his fingers around it, lightly brushing his thumb over the pulse that jumps beneath her skin. He turns her face and lowers his mouth to it, licking and biting as he groans, "I want to come, Elara."_

_Yes, oxygen is surely not necessary, for she seems to be doing just fine without it. She lets out a low whining sound at his declaration and opens her legs to sink against the hard ridge of his flesh that is captured between their bodies. She wants it inside her so badly that it is almost torture to be so close to him._

_He squeezes her tightly, bandying his arm around her waist as his hand slides down to her ass. The way he grasps her flesh, fingers flexing around her, makes her collapse against him with a drawn out moan._

"_Take me, Gloss," she tells him, her voice nothing more than the barest scrap of syllables. It is full of the desperate tones of unfulfilled want, and the plea makes his entire body burn with a fire he is only too familiar with._

_In the beginning, he used to wonder if this fire would dissipate eventually. If, once they had their fill of each other, it would cease to burn as brightly. Nothing lasts forever. He knows it more than most. And yet –_

_Sometimes he is astounded at how thoroughly she sweeps him into this blistering heat. How strongly it burns between them even after so many years of their sporadic and ill-timed affair. He no longer thinks that is it just lust that drives them together. To think of this in such a shallow way seems wrong and insipid. Even he, who shies away from heartfelt sentiments, would have to be blind and insane not to feel the rising tides of their souls as they crash together. These waves of intimacy are not borne from shallow desire, but from something far deeper._

_He groans against her neck and reaches down to grasp his erection. He can feel her heat even now, as if she is pulsing with it. It makes him clench his teeth, overcome by the enormity of the feelings that catapult through his chest and turn his every thought to her. When he sinks the tip of his length into the wetness of her folds, rubbing himself over her several times and shivering at the sweet torture he is inflicting upon them both, he nearly cries out at the intense craving to possess her; to have every single part of the woman in his arms, and never let her go for anything in the world._

_Elara whines again, the sound muffled against his temple as she sinks her fingers into his shoulders and shudders, "Please, Gloss."_

_He hums and chuckles breathlessly against her. She makes him feel so alive that he can hardly imagine how he has lived so long without her._

_He guides his erection into her and splays out his hand over her hip, pushing her down to meet him. His head falls back into the pillows as he watches her take him inside her. He loves the expressiveness of this moment – the way her eyes are dashed with an equal helping of desperate want and satisfied relief. She sinks down completely until her hips press against his, taking all of him in one move. Their eyes meet, locking together in much the same way that their lower bodies are. It is like the final answer to a crossword puzzle, when every box is filled and all the words blend seamlessly together. They say that human beings cannot obtain perfection, but Elara thinks otherwise. This moment is perfect. Whenever Gloss is inside her, bridging the remaining gaps of their bodies in this way, she thinks that perfection has many layers, and that they have transcended every one of them._

"_Move for me," he breathes against her, hands grasping her hips. He bends his knees, cradling himself around her as she sits over him. He wants to watch her move, wants to continue down the trajectory of the evening – to surrender himself to her whims and let her take from him everything that she could ever need, because he knows that in doing so, she'll give him everything he needs too._

_Elara exhales with a low moan and leans into him, letting her upper body rest against his. His hands drag up to hold her there, delighting in the smooth warmth of her skin as he buries his face into her hair. His quiet plea does things to her that cannot be put into words, but she feels the effect of it deep in her bones. Denying him is not something she finds easy to do, especially right now._

_She lifts her hips and breathes out as she thunders them back down, feeling the hard press of him everywhere. The way he rubs against her inner walls makes her shiver into him, moaning lightly as she sets the pace of their lovemaking. The clench of her around his stiff length is consuming, especially when the muscles of her inner body flex at him. He grasps her tightly and swallows back a harsh groan, fingers digging into her back as his head tips against the pillows._

_He reaches out to slip his hands over her breasts, squeezing the firm flesh as his eyes lock with hers. When he pinches her nipples, her mouth parts and a desperate sort of light enters her eyes. He hums out another of his smug smiles and leans in to kiss her jaw, dragging his hands down to her hips and rolling his own body to meet her thrusts._

"_Gloss," she mewls, voice breathless and airy. "It won't take me…very long…tonight…"_

_He chuckles at her and squeezes her, nipping at her throat as she tilts her head back. She moves over him like a wave, taking him deep inside her with every thrust. Her heat is overpowering and exquisite. He can't get enough of it._

"_Don't hold back," he responds, voice just as breathless. He wants to see the bliss play out over her face. Wants to watch her come undone even more than he wants his own end. Elara Winston is utterly gorgeous when she comes for him. It is a sight that never fails to take his breath away._

_He shuffles his body down the mattress to get better momentum, and bends his knees so that he can press himself into her more powerfully. As he does, she moans above him and opens her legs wider, accommodating his rough movements with exuberant fervor._

_It doesn't take either of them very long. Though she hadn't initially intended on the massage to be a form of foreplay, it had that effect on them both. Their movements are wild and reckless as they take each other into the depths of their passion. Every moment is a blissful torture that only gets more intense when the licking flames of her orgasm begin to thud through her. She shallows at the almost violent wave of it as it rushes through her. It is singular in its effect on her body. One moment it is barely there, grazing the edges of her consciousness – the next, Elara is gasping as it overcomes her, spinning out into her body like a tsunami that catches her so off guard, she is left dazed and disoriented in the face of it._

"_Gloss!" she wails, nearly sobbing as her body unfurls for him. He grunts and presses faster, grasping her ass so tightly that he's sure his grip is leaving bruises over her pale skin. Her orgasm is drawn out and incredibly satisfying for him, not just because he loves the way she loses herself in him, but also because of the fluttering way her inner muscles clench down around his length. It is an extreme feeling that he gets thoroughly lost in, so much so that he doesn't even realize he's moving until he's rolling Elara into the mattress and following her down with a heave of muscle._

_He reenters her swiftly, lifting her leg and hooking it around the crux of his elbow as he diligently thrusts into her from above. The sudden change in position seems to confuse her for a moment, until she decides that it's even better than the first one. There is something incredibly arousing about the way Gloss takes her like this, dominating her body with every thrust. He presses her hips hard into the mattress with each downward turn and hovers over her with a wild look in his eye, as if he's seconds away from losing every single piece of his self-control._

_Elara arches into him, reaching up to touch his chest. Her fingers scrap down it, delighting in the shiver that roils through him at her rough movement. He groans and squeezes her hip tightly, hissing out a curse that quickly gets muffled into her hair as he bows his body over hers._

_When he comes, it's with a gasping heave. His hips splutter, frantically shifting. The heat of their union makes Elara sink into the mattress with a humming sigh, thoroughly satisfied as she watches him shudder with pleasure. His orgasm crashes into him like a tempest, throwing him off course for a moment before he regathers himself and looks down at her. Their eyes meet as he comes, and – it is the sight of her viciously pleased expression that makes him groan, falling into her the moment the harsh wave of his passion has splintered._

_She wraps her limbs around him when he starts to push himself off of her, locking her legs around his and holding him tight to her chest. The insistent latch of her body around his makes him chuckle. It is a low sound, full of the intensity of gratification._

"_You make me crazy, Elara," he murmurs, and turns his head to kiss her cheek._

_She hums and turns her head, too, so that she can demand a more thorough kiss from him. He chuckles again when she pulls him against her, lips sinking into his with a happy sigh._

_She doesn't respond with words, but there is an undercurrent to her kiss that says everything he could ever wish to hear. It is reflected in her eyes when she looks up at him, felt in the crease of her body as she presses it into his. It is full of all those silent words that rush at them from all sides, sinking into their flesh and sinew like a foggy sweep of tempered joy._

_It is love that beats through them, but –_

_It is a silent sort of love. The whisper of a breath that is exhaled past parted lips, which forms the truth of their feelings but do not give them words. Words are useless creatures. Sometimes, it is in silence that they are most heard._

* * *

Elara isn't cleared to leave the hospital yet, so she has to return to her room before the nurses get too concerned about her being up and about. Sometimes, they go to find her and bring her back to her bed, saying that she needs her rest and shouldn't wear herself out. Even though she's allowed to walk around the hospital halls, they don't want her overextending herself after the ordeal she's been through.

Still, her injuries aren't as bad as Gloss's or Johanna's. In the two weeks that she's been in District 13 under the care of the medics, her body has been slowly healing. Most of her bruises and scratches are fading. When she had first been admitted to the hospital, she'd had some internal bleeding from the physical abuse and the strain on her body, but that had cleared up for the most part before the doctor had given her clearance to leave her room – with specific instructions to only do so once a day, for an hour or two each time. She hadn't wanted to listen to him at first, but she had soon discovered that she was too weak to do anything but follow those instructions anyhow.

She feels much better than she had when she first arrived, though. Finnick's been by to see her a few times, and even Haymitch had popped in. His visits are mainly to check up on Peeta, but every once in a while he sits down in the chair beside her bed and stretches his legs out, and he tells her what she's missed and what's been going on in District 13 while she was in the Capitol.

She's never been particularly close to Haymitch, mainly due to their age differences, so it's a little strange to speak to him like this. She doesn't mind the company though. Most days, she's too bored to do anything but drift in and out of sleep.

After a while, the doctors seem to think that she's healed enough to walk around more, though she still hasn't been given full clearance into District 13. According to Finnick, that's because President Coin isn't entirely sure what to do about the influx of Victors in her hospital wing. Apparently, the rebel leader is still trying to figure out the best way to handle the newest arrivals to her home.

She seems like a wary person, though Elara can't really blame her for it. Victors are a unique breed unlike any other, and President Coin has an entire district and rebellion to organize. It doesn't really matter to Elara if she's given clearance into the rest of the district or not, because she doesn't intend on leaving until Amelia is healed.

Her sister is doing much better. When she first went to see her, Amelia's pale skin and haunted appearance had been bracing, to say the least. She had sat by her side until the nurses came to collect her. She hadn't wanted to leave. Her sister has never been so weak, and Elara had still been worried that she might not make it even though she had woken up and had been taken out of the ICU unit several days later.

Still, it hurts to see Amelia in such pain. Stab wounds don't just heal overnight, regardless of the medical equipment that District 13 possesses. It isn't nearly as advanced as the equipment in the Capitol, which can heal a wound like that within days, but it's still quickened the pace marginally.

The doctors say that Gloss's wounds are healing very well, too, though Elara isn't sure she believes them. The thick bandages over his back haven't given her a very good idea into how bad his injuries really are, and she had been a first-hand witness to the way her tormentor had brought the whip to his back and cut it open dozens of times. She can still see it whenever she closes her eyes. The image of his pained expression haunts her like nothing else, but there is little she can do about it until Gloss wakes up.

* * *

When he does wake up, his head feels like it's splitting open. He groans and turns his face into the pillow that is below his head, fist clenching at his side as if he thinks that the action will combat the wave of crippling pain that waves over him. At first, he has no idea where the pain is coming from. It feels as if his entire body is on fire, like it is fluttering over every part of him. In the beginning, all he can do is lay there and just breathe.

In and out. The exercise is familiar to him. He's used it plenty of times throughout the years, for other kinds of pain and other types of nightmares. He's used it to control his anger and to put things into perspective. He just focuses on breathing, deeply inhaling and pausing before releasing the air slowly. He does it several times before memories begin to spiral through him and he can't stop his breathing from becoming more and more frantic.

Elara. The cell. The penthouse. The –

Whipping.

He clenches his jaw so hard that he nearly bites the inside of his cheek.

In and out. He focuses on breathing again, until…

"You're a real shitty brother, you know," Cashmere murmurs to the side, and Gloss's eyes burst open in shock.

Where the fuck is he? He's either hallucinating in some Capitol bed or his sister is actually real. She looks real. She's wearing a scowl that looks familiar enough, for she's directed it to him many times during his life. He can't turn his head very well because he's lying on his stomach, but he sees that she's wearing a navy jumpsuit that covers her whole body from collar to heel, and her hair is tied back at the base of her neck. He thinks it's strange that he would hallucinate such an outfit on her when she's never worn anything like it before.

It also strikes him as odd when Cashmere – his strong, fierce sister who refuses to show weakness – begins to cry. It's only a few tears that are quickly wiped away, but it's still more than he's ever seen. She hasn't cried in years. Not since she had won her Games and had been knee-deep in the horrors of her new lifestyle.

"…Cash?" he mumbles, and tries to raise himself up onto his elbow. The movement makes his back sear with so much pain that he groans and falls back down in a very graceless heap of muscle.

Cashmere scoffs halfheartedly and scoots her chair closer. She reaches a hand out to place it on his arm and murmurs, "Lay down, you idiot. Do you even know how awful you look right now?"

The cadence of her voice and the familiar scoffing tone has him chuckling weakly into the pillow despite the rush of pain that threatens to swallow him whole. He glances at her from the corner of his eye and mutters, "How do I look?"

A part of him is honestly curious to know the answer to that. He feels terrible, so he probably looks even worse. He's never felt this brand of pain before. Even back in his Academy days, when he'd come home sporting all kinds of injuries, the pain had never been like this.

His sister just purses her mouth and mumbles, "Like you were whipped to death but were too stubborn to actually die."

The answer, he supposes, is fair enough.

With a moan, Gloss shifts uncomfortably and grumbles, "Yeah, that's pretty much how I feel…" He closes his eyes and regrets it immediately, because the moment his eyelids slide shut, he sees the cell and remembers the whip that had slashed his back open. He recalls the dripping blood that had seeped through his clothes, and the foul leather strip that had been shoved between his teeth, and the man who had so furiously beat him down. He hazily remembers the torture coming to an end, and dropping heavily to the stone floor in a useless mess, and Elara crying over him –

"Elara," he croaks, eyes bursting open for the second time today. His voice is a blend of anxiety and fear, all mixed together to create the most hopeless sound Cashmere has ever heard him utter. He tries to push himself up again, grimacing against the pain even as she clenches her fingers down on his arm and tries to hold him still.

"Cashmere – where is she?" he groans, body heaving against the thunderous pain that only intensifies the more he struggles. Suddenly, he remembers a lot more than just the whipping. He remembers Elara's hoarse cries as she had sobbed out her sister's name and had begged her to wake up and to not die –

His sister hushes him and whispers, "She's fine, Gloss. So is Amelia. They're both alive. They're okay." She continues on in this gentle tone until he lays back down and seems to accept the words that she murmurs to him, all soft and quiet and very different from the brash tone that she usually uses with him.

He turns his head and stares at his sister as if he's trying to read her mind, and croaks, "…They're both alive? They're both here?"

Cashmere nods, and he can't even explain the crippling relief that catches him in the chest. There are no words to describe the feeling, only that it encompasses him so entirely that he can only lay there and keep breathing.

In and out.

Cashmere quietly explains that he's been pumped up with painkillers for nearly a whole week now, and that in this time, Elara had woken up and she's been keeping vigil over her sister's bed almost nonstop. She tells him how the rebels had infiltrated the Capitol to save them, and how they had realized that Amelia had still been alive – just barely breathing – when they had gone into Elara's cell. He listens to this information silently, absorbing the news as he closes his eyes and just keeps breathing against the pain.

When she's finished with the story, Gloss mumbles, "Where is she? Elara…"

He wants to see her. To make sure that she's okay. To wrap her up in his arms and keep her safe in all the ways that he hadn't been able to do, before. But Cashmere just takes his hand and whispers, "Probably with her sister. Should I go try to find her?"

He squeezes her fingers weakly, feeling the world spinning around him, and breathes, "No…no…let her stay with Amelia for now…"

Suddenly he isn't sure if he wants Elara to see him like this, even though he's sure she already has. He can't recall ever feeling as weak as he does now. He can't even speak with his usual strength. He feels like a shell of himself, made from dust and brimstone.

Cashmere just sighs and squeezes his hand in hers as if she's trying to impart some of her strength into him. He pretends not to notice the way she wipes more tears away.

"Go to sleep," she tells him. "When you wake up, you'll be back to your usual self."

But he's always been Cashmere's shadow, and he knows that she's only saying those words to make him feel better. He isn't sure if he'll ever be the same man he was before the Capitol had gotten their hands on him.

* * *

Johanna Mason has never been the type of person to just sit around and do nothing. She's far too impatient, and not even being stuck in a hospital bed with serious injuries can alter this aspect of her character. Not by much, anyhow. When Elara slips into her room and sees the Victor trying to stand up, she isn't really surprised.

"You're not allowed to get out of bed," she drawls, stepping into the room and crossing her arms.

The brash Victor that Elara has gotten to know so well is just a shadow of herself. She can hardly believe that this is Johanna at all. Her head's been shaved, and she's lost so much weight. Her face has always been sharp and angular, but now the bones are so pronounced that she looks downright skeletal.

Johanna takes one look at her and snorts. "As if you could stop me," she mutters, but even as she says the words, she sits back and doesn't try to get up again. Instead she merely sits there on the edge of her bed with her legs hanging off the side and glowers at Elara as if it's her fault for her predicament.

Elara doesn't take offense. She knows Johanna well enough by now to understand the strange way her mind works. As she slowly steps forward, she studies Johanna's form with a careful gaze that Johanna immediately picks up on.

"What, you think I'm about to drop dead just because I spent a few weeks in a Capitol prison?" she demands. Unlike the rest of her, the Victor's voice is just as reckless and brash as ever.

Elara smiles at her and shrugs. "No," she responds, "But I thought you'd still be out of it."

Johanna rolls her eyes and leans her head back, stretching her neck as she replies, "Fuck that. I'm ready to get the hell out of here and go get something decent to eat." Then, turning a raised eyebrow towards her, Johanna drawls, "Go get me some food, Winston. Might as well make yourself useful."

Elara laughs at this and says in amusement, "Amelia tried to pull the same thing."

Mention of her sister has Johanna looking at her in surprise. Everyone knows about Amelia Winston. At least, most of the Victors do. Johanna's heard plenty about the younger Winston sister despite having never met her. Elara likes to complain about how her sister always gets into trouble in one way or another, and the stories have always entertained Johanna.

"Your sister's here? When the fuck did that happen?" Johanna wonders, lifting her arms up to stretch those, too. She quickly grimaces, though, when she ends up pulling at an injury, and cusses in a particularly foul way as she lowers them again.

Elara runs a hand through her hair and carefully asks, "You didn't hear what happened in my cell, then? They brought Amelia in and tried to use her against me. They…they stabbed her. I thought she was dead…"

She trails off because she can feel her throat closing up at the thought. It doesn't matter that she knows her sister is safe. It doesn't matter because she had seen the man plunge that knife into Amelia's chest and had watched her bleed out and had _thought_ that she died, and it was traumatic enough to make her feel like the world is closing in on her even though it isn't.

Johanna stares at her, no doubt noticing the reason for the shaky explanation. She sees the tears that are gathered in Elara's eyes and frowns, but she only asks, "So…she's in District 13?"

When Elara silently nods, Johanna releases a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "That's good," she mutters, and cracks her knuckles.

"Everyone's here," Elara tells her, and laughs haltingly because she can still hardly believe it herself.

Johanna nods slowly. "Even Peeta?" she questions, glancing up at Elara cautiously. Her cell had been close to Peeta's. The sound of his screams has become very familiar to her. When Elara nods, she lets out a relieved breath.

"God, we're so fucked up," Johanna laughs after a moment, and shakes her head.

And then…

"Speak for yourself," Cashmere says from the doorway. Both women turn to look at her in surprise, having not even noticed her entrance until this moment.

Johanna snorts and gripes, "Well you look fucking great. Good on you." There's no bite behind her words, though. She almost sounds happy to see her.

Cashmere gives Johana a smile and steps into the room. She cuts a glance over at Elara and slowly says, "Gloss woke up. He asked after you. I thought I should let you know."

The information has Elara straightening up in surprise. She's been to see him a number of times, but during each visit, he had been unconscious and unaware of her presence at all. To hear that he is awake and talking is tremendous.

She turns to face Cashmere and earnestly asks, "How is he?"

Cashmere, though, just scoffs, "Why don't you go find out for yourself? He might still be awake. I couldn't tell if he'd fallen asleep or not when I left."

The suggestion only makes Elara pause for a moment. Despite the guilt that she feels regarding dragging Gloss into this mess, it doesn't lessen her desire to go to him. The others clearly notice, because Johanna just rolls her eyes and gruffy says, "Well go on, then."

Elara exhales quietly and sends Johanna a brief smile. She stands up and squeezes Cashmere's arm as she passes her. "Thanks," she murmurs, and steps out of the room.

Gloss is in the exact same position that he'd been in the last time she had visited, so she thinks at first the he's sleeping. As she steps around his bed and sinks into the chair, she studies his closed eyes and relaxed face silently for a long minute before carefully kneeling down by his bed and taking his hand in hers. She presses her lips to his fingers, squeezing them gently between hers as she sighs out. She doesn't expect him to be awake, nor does she expect him to be conscious enough to realize that it's her. All the other times she's been here, he hadn't.

But he is awake. He is conscious. And when he groggily whispers her name, Elara is so shocked that she can only lift her head and stare at him.

"…Gloss?" she breathes, and holds his hand tighter. "Oh God. You're awake? How are you feeling? I've missed you so much…I've been waiting for you to wake up – "

If he doesn't interrupt her, she's sure that she would have kept talking indefinitely. But he sighs and cuts in with a weak, "I'm fine…I'm fine, Elara."

His words make her shake her head because she knows he's lying. How could anyone be fine with their back lashed open? She sniffs and reaches up to hastily wipe away the tears that want to leave her eyes. In a shaky voice she murmurs, "You're not fine. I thought I lost you." She grasps his hand even harder and presses her forehead against his fingers as she heaves, "I'm so sorry Gloss. I'm so sorry…"

He sounds confused when he slowly murmurs, "…Why are you sorry?"

She looks up at him, frustrated that the tears keep coming even as she wipes them away. He sighs and lifts his hand. She's kneeling close enough to his bedside so that he can easily cup her face and brush her tears away, but the gentle movement only makes her cry harder.

"Elara," he whispers, "this isn't your fault."

He knows her. He sees the guilt in her eyes as clear as daylight. Elara Winston isn't a mystery to him anymore. He knows her inside and out. Sometimes he thinks that he knows her better than he knows himself. Her mouth trembles, so he brushes her bottom lip with his thumb too and sighs again.

Her voice is thick when she hoarsely whispers, "It _is_ my fault. I convinced you to join the rebellion. I didn't even know the full plan, but I still forced your hand – "

Gloss chuckles weakly and scoffs, "You know better than anyone that no one can force me to do anything."

She lets out a laughing sob, and even though her voice is choked with tears, he is relieved to hear it. They fall silent. She takes his hand again and lays it back down on the bed, holding it firmly in hers. Then, reaching up to stroke his face, she swallows thickly and mumbles, "I asked you to fight for me…I shouldn't have. Was it selfish of me?"

But Gloss, he only looks at her and says in a solemn voice, "I'd fight the whole fucking world for you, Elara Winston."

And when she starts crying again, he merely squeezes her hand and lets her.


	56. Or what it is to keep you in my arms

**Chapter Fifty Six | Or what it is to keep you in my arms;**

"_Leap to these arms untalked of and unseen._

_Lovers can see_ to_ do their amorous rites_

_By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,_

_It best agrees with night."_

_3.2, 7-10 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Sometimes Gloss thinks that he'll never be able to get enough of Elara Winston. Even when he's with her, he thinks that he'll never be fully satisfied until he can claim every single part of her for his own._

"_Gloss – the lights," she hums against his mouth, legs tight around his waist as he presses her against the closed door of the maintenance closet. The Tribute Center doesn't have very many places for them to be together like this, and sneaking in and out of each other's bedrooms all the time is dangerous. If someone sees them, it could spell disaster. The gossip and tabloids that would get around would no doubt have President Snow throwing a fit. He handles his Victors very carefully. Their reputations are fuel for his empire and he, its iron fisted ruler._

_It's easier when it isn't the Games season. Every other time of the year, they can just visit each other in their apartments, where they have some privacy and don't have to hide. If they were smart, they'd be stricter about their affair and not take these sorts of chances when so many things could go wrong, but –_

_Well, neither of them ever claimed that they were smart when it comes to each other._

_Gloss growls with impatience. One hand is hiked around Elara's ass, holding her firmly against him. The other reaches out to blindly search for the light switch that he knows for a fact is next to the door, because they've been in this particular position several times by now._

_It takes him some time to actually find it, because Elara is thoroughly distracting him as she forcefully drags his shirt off, fingers flying over the buttons of it and ripping it out of his trousers. The first moment she can, she's leaning down to kiss and bite and lick over as much of his exposed skin as she can, and Gloss is rather overcome by the feel of her. Everything about her is overwhelming. Her scent, her warmth, her body – even the wisps of her hair as they tumble against his face._

"_For fuck's sake," he mutters, and finally finds the light switch. The moment the tiny, cramped closet is filled with light, Gloss turns his full attention to her and buries his hands into her shirt._

_His touch is rough and needy. It stokes a fire in Elara's body that can't be quenched, and makes her breath uneven and shaky as he presses her diligently into the locked door. She can feel the hard press of his erection swelling against his trousers, and shuffles her hips over it with a low moan. Just the mere knowledge that he is stiff and ready to take her is arousing enough, but the hissing groan that leaves his throat at her insistent move makes her entire body alight with desire._

"_Shh," he tells her, nipping at the column of her neck. "As much as I'd like to hear you moan until your throat is raw, Winston, we don't have that luxury right now."_

_She shivers brightly at the descriptive quality of his words and her head falls back against the door when his hands cup her breasts beneath the fabric of her shirt. He wrangles her bra up so that he can feel the velvety skin of her chest. The way he hums with low satisfaction as he pinches her nipples makes her inhale raggedly._

_Her fingers are quick and demanding when they tug at his belt. She wants to feel him in her hand, wants to draw him inside her and feel the rigid flesh fill her in ways she is never filled otherwise. Being with him is a dream within a nightmare; a sliver of peace that should not exist in her dark world, but does. When he's inside her, she feels alive in ways she never does when he isn't._

_As she fumbles with his zipper, tugging it down over the bulge that has her so aroused, she tilts her lips into his and kisses him hungrily. Gloss groans as she rubs her fingers over him through his briefs, hand dipping between the folds of clothing and delighting in the heat of his erection as it burns through the fabric._

"_There's another way to make my throat raw," she tells him wryly, smirking as she squeezes his length through the briefs._

_His eyes flash, immediately catching onto her suggestion. For a moment he looks like he's extremely interested in following through with it, until his fingers fly down to rip her shirt up over her head. He mutters, "I want to be inside you, Elara. As soon as possible."_

_She moans at the sinful words, chest heaving with a tattered gasp as he rips her bra off and then lets her slide down his body. The moment she's standing, he immediately hooks his fingers into the belt loops of her jeans and drags her into his body, smirking vividly at the way she inhales with sharp desire._

"_God, Gloss," she laughs breathlessly, and watches him make quick work of her jeans. He leans in to slide them down her hips, grabbing hold of her underwear at the same time, and she gasps, "I could come just listening to you."_

_He looks somewhat smug upon hearing this. His mouth tilts up into a pleased smirk as he tosses her jeans to the side and then stands back, crossing his arms and gazing at her. She doesn't move beneath his stare. She just stands there naked in the small closet, shivering as she watches his eyes darken with the heady smolder lust._

"_We should test that someday," he murmurs, roving over her body with those gorgeous eyes that instill within her so much desire. It batters against her heart, unfurling against her skin like wayward stars bursting in a night sky._

_He leans back against a table that stands against the wall. Then, pushing his hands onto the edges of it, he lowly orders, "Come here, Elara."_

_She shivers, but can't possibly deny him. He's beautiful even now, half dressed with broomsticks and cleaning supplies in the backdrop._

_When she steps up to him, he doesn't make a move to draw her closer. For a moment they just stand there, smiling at each other. Their eyes speak words that their mouths do not – yet another movement in the sonata that had begun to play years before, on that fateful night when he had taken her into his arms for the first time and had opened the doors to intimacy. He had guided her then, showing her how to please him; showing her how it feels to be stripped bare by overmastering desire. She hadn't known what to do or where to touch him at first, but she needs no instruction now._

_She reaches for his trousers and slides them off his hips, just far enough so that she can reach into his briefs to grasp his erection. Her hand wraps around the firm flesh. Just touching him like this makes her shiver with intense pleasure. She loves when he's hard and aching. Loves when she gets to watch his expression crumble in so many ways from one single brush of her fingers over his swollen flesh._

_Gloss breathes out, eyes flickering from her face to her hand as she gives him one long stroke. He's already stiff with desire, but her touch makes him stiffen all the more, hardening against her palm as she pumps him between her fingers. She hasn't been able to touch him like this in weeks, and they're both reeling from the overpowering satisfaction that spirals through the air between them._

"_I've dreamed of fucking you a thousand times," he tells her, his voice a shard that blisters over her skin. She feels the words as if they are solid, tangible things; creatures that shudder over her with potent insistence. Her mind spins with thoughts of him doing just that – dreaming of her back in District 1 and waking up hard and stiff for want of her. The thought makes her swallow thickly, eyes fluttering as she watches him pull himself up onto the edge of the table. She follows him, leaning over his body and splaying a hand against his chest, palming his warm skin and sighing at the feeling of his muscles flexing beneath her fingertips._

"_I thought you said we were gonna test this later?" she murmurs, mouth edging up into an amused smile._

_Gloss chuckles, reaching out to slip his hands around her thighs. She lets out a rattled, breathless moan when he hikes her onto the table with him, pressing her into his lap. Her legs bandy around his waist. The heat of his length shifts against her naval._

"_I'm just informing you how much I've missed being inside you," he shrugs, grasping her ass tightly and pulling her further against him. He exhales with a groan when his erection gets trapped between their bodies, rubbing just so against the soft skin that he's long since memorized._

_If they had more time and a safer place to be together, he'd kiss over her entire body to remind himself just how much he loves every inch of her skin._

_Elara arches into him and hums when his mouth drops to her breasts, kissing over the top of her chest before burying his face between them and lifting his hands to cup at their gentle weight. He makes a satisfied sound, enjoying the feel of her against his cheek._

_With a sigh, Elara runs her fingers through his hair to hold him against her and murmurs, "Well unless you want to finish this too quickly, stop being so informative."_

_He chuckles, lifting his head just so to catch her eye. His hands drag down her sides as he breathes, "Are you really that effected by me, Winston?"_

_She pauses for a moment, half surprised that he even has to ask, and half convinced that he's just being coy with her, as he sometimes is when he's in a playful mood. The corner of his mouth is quirked up, and she has a feeling that it's the latter. Still, just because, she decides to gives him a proper response._

_She reaches for his hand, opening his fingers and drawing her own over his palm. He looks down at their hands and watches as she pulls him down to cup her womanhood. He very nearly growls at the heat that immediately greets him, his brows furrowing with lust when he dips his fingers into her folds and feels just how wet she is._

"_Does that answer your question?" she whispers, closing her eyes with a quiet moan when he drags his fingers over her, rubbing slow circles into her heat._

_Gloss exhales softly, running his thumb up her clit and watching her expression shatter when he presses a firm touch against the bundle of nerves at the top of it._

"_Yes," he breathes, and smiles._

_She smiles too, cupping his face in her hand and leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek, then his jaw. She runs her nose over the stubble that is growing over it and kisses his chin. All the while he watches her, eyes half lidded. The air between them is heady with lust, but suddenly another emotion takes a hold of the space as she lowers her mouth to his._

_He knows he's in love with her. He's known it for a while now. But he's still surprised at how delicate she makes him feel sometimes, when she turns her attention to such heartfelt, beautiful admissions. He's never felt as breakable in all his life as he does when she's kissing him with such soft affection._

_He sighs against her mouth, tilting his head back and basking in her kiss. His hand, still cupped around her heat, shifts in time with the movement of her mouth. When he dips a finger into the clench of her, the way she moans with that hushed reverence makes him feel like he's blind to everything and everyone save for her._

_She rocks her hips into him ever so slowly, kissing him as she takes pleasure from his touch. He lets her move, uninhibited, thrusting his finger in time with her swaying movement. His mouth falls open and her tongue shifts against his, their breathing quiet and soft. This moment that they share is efflorescent in a way he can't describe, but he knows that he never wants it to end._

"_Sometimes I dream about you too," she whispers suddenly, and his eyes flutter open to look at her._

_Her movements come to a slow halt. She lifts her hips from his hand and reaches for his length, enjoying for a brief moment how heavy and solid he feels against her palm. He breathes out when she pulls him into her, dipping the head of him into her folds. She drags him over her a few times, watching how his eyes splinter with gratifying desperation, and as she sinks down onto him, she moans, "I dream of making love to you. Sometimes the dreams are so vivid that I wake up aching."_

_He groans at her description and heaves her tight against him, pulling her fully onto his length and keeping her there for a few drawn out moments without moving. He wants to feel her heat, feel the way she clenches down around him, her inner muscles holding him tightly as if she means to keep him there forever._

_She shifts a little, adjusting her position in his lap. Her legs spread wider to accommodate her movements, knees jutting further over the table's surface as she wraps her arms around his neck and buries one hand into his hair. Her other hand delves down the firm muscles of his back, splaying out over his tanned skin as she begins to shift her hips into his._

"_Do you touch yourself?" he asks, and his frank question sounds insistent. He wants to know; needs to know._

_She exhales against his ear and moans as his hands clutch around her hips and hasten her movements just so, his body tilting back so that her thrusts are fuller and longer._

"_Sometimes," she moans, and he lets out a throaty hum at her response, clearly enjoying the mental images that it presents. Elara breathlessly laughs, pressing her hips faster into his, loving the way his rigid flesh fills her so completely, and tells him, "My touch is nothing compared to this, though." She pulls back to look at him and breathes, "I love it when you're inside me. You feel…mmm, so good."_

_She moans when his fingers reach down to rub at the top of her clit, his mouth curling up into a satisfied smirk._

"_You know, Winson," he growls, swallowing thickly when she rocks her hips hard into his and takes him deeper. "I think I could come just from your voice, too."_

_She isn't expecting this, and bursts into quiet, breathless laughter. She grins at him and he chuckles, but the sound disappears when suddenly the broomstick that's leaning against the table falls forward, hitting Gloss in the back of the head with a loud crack and then tumbling against her, too._

"_Fucking shit – " he immediately curses as the broomstick clatters to the floor. In the still, quiet closet, the noise is like a thunderbolt._

_They both freeze as if they expect their small sliver of peace to be thoroughly intruded upon by Peacekeepers or wayward stylists, grasping each other as their movements splutter to an absolute halt. It's torturous in itself, but their hearts are beating wildly out of fear of being caught more than anything else._

_They sit like that for several long minutes that seem to stretch into eternity before Gloss quietly grouses, "We shouldn't have to do this in a fucking broom closet."_

_Elara glances back at the closed door and purses her mouth. "We don't really have any other options."_

_She turns back to look at him, only to find that he's glowering at the fallen broom as if it's personally responsible for every shitty thing that's ever happened to him, and she can't quite help the snicker that sounds from her throat at the sight of his expression. He turns his glower onto her when he hears it, but it doesn't exactly take her amusement away._

"_Don't laugh," he growls. It only makes her snicker harder._

"_I'm sorry," she chuckles, "It's just – your face was priceless." Then, because she feels a little bad for him, she reaches behind his head and asks, "Are you alright?"_

_Gloss doesn't appreciate the laughing way she asks it and narrows his eyes at her. He mutters, "No. My head hurts."_

_Elara purses her mouth and leans in to kiss his temple as if it will make him feel better, but Gloss is more interested in getting revenge on her for being amused at his expense. His form of revenge is to lift her up, dragging her tightly against him as he stands. He's still buried in her, and the movement quickly reminds her that she's incredibly aroused. By the time he's walked to the other end of the small room and is pressing her diligently to the wall, he's doing a pretty good job at hitting the point home._

"_Gloss!" she yelps as he hikes her legs around the crevice of his elbows and slams into her. She moans a little too loudly, and he quickly leans down to muffle the noise with his lips._

"_Be quiet, Elara," he whispers, though he wishes he didn't have to. He loves the sounds she makes. They're so incredibly erotic that they make him crazy._

_She whimpers into his mouth as he fucks her hard into the wall, legs tight around his waist and fingers scrabbling over his shoulders. With a gasp, she murmurs, "I can't help it – oh, God, I've missed this – "_

_He grunts in agreement and buries himself into her again and again, wishing that he could drag this moment out for an eternity and never have to part from her. If only he could be with her whenever he wants; sleep beside her every night and satisfy her whenever those dreams of hers leave her aching and wanting him. If he had her in his arms, he'd make sure she never went unsatisfied._

_But – there are some things that are unattainable. Some things that are not meant to be. Some things that the universe itself revolts against; that Fate does not give purchase to._

_Maybe loving Elara Winston is one of them. He doesn't know. All he knows is that even though this broom closet is a poor excuse to make love in - as he sinks himself into her body and inhales her gasps and shatters around the way she whispers his name in his ear – he can't bear the thought of leaving it._

* * *

Another week goes by before Elara is given clearance to leave the hospital. She isn't the only one. Amelia is also allowed to leave, though she is under specific instructions to visit the hospital every couple of days to ensure that her wound is healing properly. Only time can heal the rest of it though, and the doctors are lenient enough to allow her to join her sister.

Cashmere leads the way through the district the morning they are released. Elara can scarcely believe that this place exists, despite her tenacious hope. When she steps out of the hospital wing, it's like she's stepping into another world.

The moment they reach the main halls, dozens of citizens bustle through the pathways in matching navy jumpsuits. There seems to be a purpose behind their movements. They remind Elara of ants in an anthill, industriously working to ensure the efficient operation of the place. She notices that everyone has some sort of white tag sewn into the chest of the jumpsuit, and upon further inspection, she realizes that they differentiate each citizen from one another. Some of them are logistical engineers, and some of them are weapon specialists. She even sees a group of women with tags that mark them as bath attendants. The thought of taking a bath is greatly appealing to her after being cooped up in a hospital bed for weeks.

She holds Amelia's hand tightly as she hurries after Cashmere. Prior to leaving the hospital, her and Amelia had been given their own jumpsuit to change into. They fit right into the place almost seamlessly, though Elara isn't blind to the glances that people send them as they pass through the halls. Even though they appear to be citizens of District 13, it's rather clear that the actual citizens can tell them apart. They know Cashmere's face by now, and they must have connected the dots when they see Elara and Amelia walking behind her.

Not that Elara gives them more of a passing glance. She is far too swept up in studying the district that she had always assumed was nothing more than a myth.

It's incredible. When they reach the end of the hall, the entire place seems to open up into a large vertical tunnel that goes straight up and down. There are metal stairs that take them to various levels, and no elevators in sight. According to Cashmere, the elevators are restricted to medical personnel, higher ups in the army, and the president herself. They're also used for emergency situations, which Cashmere tells her are handled with far more efficiency than she ever imagined. There's been a few of them in the last few weeks. The Capitol hasn't ignored District 13 and has sent several bomb raids their way. Elara's glad she missed that.

"All the Victors are assigned rooms that are close by," Cashmere informs them as they take to the stairs. The blonde woman seems to fit right in here. At least, she knows where she's going and has gotten used to this place well enough by now. She maneuvers them around District 13 citizens easily, even as they begin to descend down the steep metal stairway.

It's a bit frightening to be on a metal stair with so many people rushing by her, especially when she glances down one side and can't see the bottom. She keeps to the other side of the stair from that point on, until they reach their landing.

Cashmere gestures down one of the hallways that juts off to the side and says, "This is it. It's not that far from the hospital, so it'll be easy to visit my brother until he's cleared to leave." She sends Elara an amused glance as she utters the words, and Elara huffs.

Gloss is doing much better. He's improved a lot in the last week, but he's still bedridden. With the help of the medical equipment that District 13 possesses, they've managed to heal the deeper cuts on his back and he can sit up now. As long as he doesn't put too much pressure on the wounds, the doctors say that he'll be as good as new in no time. Or – at least, he'll be able to leave the hospital wing, like he's been griping about for the last few days now.

It doesn't surprise Elara that he's being impatient about it. Now that he can sit up and move around his room a bit, he seems to think that he can conquer the world.

Cashmere leads the pair to their assigned room and swings open the door. "It isn't much to look at, but at least you'll have a place to sleep."

They step inside, and Cashmere is right: it _isn't_ much to look at. There are two beds pushed against the walls and one dresser standing between them. Other than that, the only furniture in the small space is a wooden chair that's pressed into the corner near the door. That isn't what makes Elara raise an eyebrow though. What really takes her aback is the fact that the entire room is made of metal.

Metal walls, metal floor, metal ceiling. Even the bedframes are metal. The only thing that isn't is the bedding and the other furniture. It's all grey and dismal.

Amelia, though, doesn't seem to mind. She rushes in a bit too fast for Elara's liking, considering that she's still healing, and throws herself onto the bed with a sigh.

"It doesn't smell like chemicals," she cheers, much to Cashmere's amusement.

The blonde Victor smiles as she leans against the threshold. "It's better than nothing. You'll get used to it," she adds when she sees Elara's dubious expression. "Besides, it's only for the time being."

She's obvious referring to the war, and Elara hums. She isn't sure if it's in agreement or not, though. She hasn't had much information about the rebel movements besides what Cashmere and Finnick has told her.

Cashmere seems to pick up on that, too, when she murmurs, "Coin will probably want to speak with the Victors once they're all cleared from the hospital. For now, just get used to the way things work around here. I have a schedule to stick to, so I won't be around all the time, but I'll show you where the cafeteria and the training centers are so at least you won't get lost."

Elara had seen the schedule she's referring to before, when Cashmere had shown it to her in the hospital. It changes every day, which is why it's more efficient to have it stamped on everyone's arms. Resources are limited here. They don't have paper to waste or holograms that they can distribute to every citizen.

Amelia sits up on the bed and eagerly says, "I want to see the training center!"

Elara purses her mouth at her, but Amelia just ignores the look in favor of sending pleading eyes to Cashmere. It's a little bit amusing, the way her younger sister seems to idolize the Victor. She's heard plenty of stories about Gloss and his sister over the years, but none of the stories quite live up to meeting them face to face.

Cashmere sends Elara a wry look and drawls, "I think it would be better to show you around later. I should go check up on my brother before he tries to strangle a doctor."

The thought makes Elara quirk a smile. His impatience has grown exponentially over the last few days alone. She wouldn't put it past him to try to force his way out of the hospital.

With a chuckle, Elara murmurs, "That's probably a good idea."

Cashmere smirks in agreement, and glances over at Amelia. "I'll come back at dinnertime to show you where the cafeteria is."

Amelia is only a little bit disappointed. Mention of having a real dinner does wonders at uplifting her spirits. She sighs wistfully, "I'll never eat jello again…"

Cashmere laughs. She puts a hand on Elara's shoulder and says, "See you soon," before taking her leave.

When she's gone, Elara drifts over to her bed and sinks down on it. The mattress is hard and uncomfortable, but she doesn't really mind. It definitely beats sleeping on the ground of her cell.

"Maybe I'll move in with Cashmere when Gloss gets out of the hospital," Amelia suddenly says. Her voice is just mischievous enough to make Elara sigh, already knowing where she's going with this. She gives her sister a look, but it doesn't stop her from drawling, "He'll want you all to himself. He'll probably jump your bones the first moment he gets."

Elara sighs, feeling herself blush a little bit at the thought. She tells Amelia to shut up, but inside she's wondering if that will actually happen. Memories of the penthouse swarm through her mind as she lays down and gets comfortable. The intimacy between them has been stripped away and stolen like every other aspect of their lives, and she isn't convinced that it will be that easy to build it back up.

* * *

After a while, Johanna is released from the hospital. Several days later, so is Gloss. Peeta is still recuperating and he probably will be for a while yet. According to Haymitch, his mind is very fragile right now. The Capitol have altered his memories of Katniss and made him think that she's a mutt that wants to kill him. She's seen Katniss only a few times since arriving in District 13, and never for long enough to really stop and chat. The Girl on Fire is busy filming promos most days and pacing outside of Peeta's room during every spare moment she has, so Elara has barely even glimpsed her.

She has other things to concern herself with though. Namely escorting her impatient lover down the steep stairs of District 13.

"This jumpsuit is scratchy," he grumbles as he leans against her. His back is completely healed, but it still hurts him to move too quickly. He's eager to start training again to build up the muscle he had lost during their time in the Capitol prisons. According to him, he's hasn't been in such a terrible state since before he started training at the Academy.

She doesn't think he's changed that much, physically. He's dropped some weight, but he still seems just as muscular as ever. Maybe it's just because she's dropped some weight too, and they even each other out.

"It's better than the hospital gown," she tells him with a raised eyebrow, and he snorts.

As they enter the hallway that Elara's been staying in for the last few weeks now, he drawls, "You didn't like the sight of my ass hanging out?"

Elara laughs at this, not expecting him to joke around about it, and glances at him from over her shoulder. With a wry smirk, she murmurs, "It definitely scarred Amelia, that's for sure."

He's about to chuckle, then thinks better of it and just dryly agrees, "Yeah, well, I didn't know she was there or I would've preserved my modesty."

The thought of Gloss 'preserving his modesty' makes Elara snicker as she slides open her door. He takes one look at the interior compartment and grumbles, "What the fuck? Metal beds? Do I really have to live here?"

Elara smiles. She turns to him and pulls him inside with an amused hum. "Your District 1 is showing, Gloss."

He purses his mouth at her and circles his arms around her waist, hauling her into his body with a grunt. She's right though. He comes from the luxury district. He certainly isn't used to such deplorable living conditions. As Elara gingerly wraps her arms around his neck, she murmurs, "Besides, these are my quarters. I'm sharing with Amelia. _You_ aren't going to be living here anyway."

He raises an eyebrow at her and demands in a mock offensive tone, "You don't want to bunk with me, Winston?"

She chuckles and kisses his jaw just because she can, enjoying the freedom of their affection a little too much. It's so strange to be able to kiss him whenever she wants. So beautiful, too.

"…Though," she says against his jaw, kissing a line over the stubble that he hasn't been able to shave in the last few days, "Amelia mentioned that she'd rather stay with Cashmere once you got out of the hospital. She seemed to think it was the safer option."

He raises an eyebrow and smirks, "Is she afraid of seeing my ass again?"

Elara snickers, but her laugh dies down when she catches sight of the strange way he's looking at her, as if he isn't as confident as he'd been seconds ago. She carefully reaches up to draw her fingertips over his cheekbone and wonders, "…What is it?"

He doesn't respond right away. Instead he just grips her harder, hands fisting into her jumpsuit as he stares down at her. After a beat of silence, he says in a strained voice, "I don't know, Elara…"

And really, it only takes those four words to make her realize why he's suddenly acting the way he's acting. She sighs out and buries her face against his neck, clenching her fingers into his sleeve. They stay like that for a while, both thinking about the penthouse suite and the things that they had done within the walls of it, and then Elara whispers, "We've overcome so much, Gloss. We can overcome this too."

He swallows thickly and nods against her, but he doesn't say anything in response. Elara knows it's because he's not sure if they really can overcome it, but she just stays quiet too.

Reading the silence that presses into the gaps between them has become almost second nature by now, and she is content to allow it to breathe.

* * *

Elara is preparing for bed when a knock sounds at the door of her compartment. She's in the middle of folding her navy jumpsuit and setting it aside when she hears it, and glances over at Amelia curiously. Her younger sister hasn't gotten changed yet, and is just laying on her bed as she fiddles with the device that is located beside it in the wall, which stamps out each individual schedule. Or, at least, it's supposed to, but neither of them has received a set schedule yet. So far, their days have been filled with exploring District 13 and meeting up with the other Victors in the cafeteria for meals. Elara doesn't particularly mind the boredom that accompanies this existence, but she knows that Amelia is getting antsy.

"Expecting someone?" Amelia drawls as she sits up, and raises a pert eyebrow at her sister. Elara rolls her eyes at the look she sends her, knowing what the meaning is behind those amused eyes. Ever since Gloss had been cleared from the hospital, he's taken it upon himself to complain Elara's ear off about the way of life here. Not that Elara really minds that, either.

He doesn't belong in this place any more than she does. District 13 is a far cry different from anything they are used to. The way of life in the other districts is much more private and set apart, and as Victors, they are accustomed to having better accommodations.

Elara sighs and goes to open the door of the compartment, pulling her nightshirt down a bit as she reaches for the doorknob. The nightclothes that have been provided to them are modest things, but she is a bit taller than most of the other women around her, and instead of the hem reaching her knees as it does for Amelia, it's hiked up a bit higher than that. She's still tugging it down when she opens the door and comes face to face with a sight that she is half tempted to laugh at.

"Cash?" she wonders, and peers over the blonde's shoulder at the sight of Gloss, who has apparently been dragged here by the sleeve of his jumpsuit. Cashmere is clenching down on the fabric tightly, and she looks annoyed. Gloss meets Elara's eye and shrugs.

"Take him," Cashmere demands, and shoves her brother into the compartment. Elara's so surprised that she barely has time to step aside as he is pushed past her. Amelia leans back on her pillows to watch the proceedings, looking faintly amused as she pushes her arms behind her head.

"What?" Elara splutters, and looks between the siblings in confusion.

Cashmere rolls her eyes. "He's driving me crazy with his whining. Let's switch. Amelia and I can bunk together, and you can deal with his complaining. I feel like I haven't slept in _days."_

Gloss's voice is petulant when he grumbles, "She's exaggerating."

His sister merely sends him a glower. He glowers right back.

"Come on, Amelia," Cashmere says, waving her over. The younger Winston sister smirks widely, not even trying to hide her amusement – or her excitement. She practically worships Cashmere. She thinks the Victor is the coolest person alive.

Elara puts her hands on her hips and says, "Wait, this is kind of – "

"Oh hush, Elara," Amelia drawls, grabbing her pajamas as she steps around them. "We all know that you want to be with your boyfriend anyway." Then, turning to Cashmere eagerly, Amelia says, "Let's go!"

The blonde Victor sends Elara a smirk and turns on her heel, leaving her brother behind. Amelia and her disappear into their quarters without another word, leaving the pair alone. Elara is reeling a bit from the sudden turn of events, so Gloss just steps forward to close the door and grumbles with no shortage of exasperation, "Sisters."

Elara looks over at him and dryly hums in agreement. She sighs and goes back to folding her jumpsuit. Gloss just stands there in the middle of the small compartment looking a bit lost.

"You can take Amelia's bed," Elara mutters. When he doesn't respond, she glances over at him, only to find that he is staring at her. She raises an eyebrow and wonders, "What?"

He crosses his arms and peruses her figure, taking in the oversized nightshirt and the way it slides off of her frame for a moment before slowly saying, "I'll take your bed."

At this, Elara turns to face him fully. It's her turn to study him. She knows him well enough by now to recognize the short burst of desire burning in his eyes, but the memories of the penthouse make her wonder if she's just seeing things. They haven't spoken about those clients at all since arriving in District 13. It's almost become a taboo subject between them. She has no idea what to think of this.

Hesitantly, she murmurs, "Okay…then should _I _take Amelia's bed?" She gives him a look, and he raises an eyebrow in response.

"You don't want to sleep next to me?" he asks. His voice is really more of a demand. In fact, he sounds almost offended.

She pauses, and then sighs, "Gloss…in the Capitol – "

"I just want to hold you," he cuts in swiftly, and steps towards her. It's obvious what she had been about to say, and it's just as obvious that he doesn't want to go there right now. That heavy conversation is, perhaps, better had at another time. For now…

"Okay," Elara whispers as he takes her hand and leads her over to the bed. It isn't a very large bed – just barely big enough for the both for them – but when Gloss pulls her against him and surrounds her with his warmth, she thinks it's perfect.

She buries her face against him as he pulls the covers up. Against the fabric of his shirt, she murmurs, "We should probably talk about it, though. Don't you think?"

He just grunts and gathers her as close as possible. A brief silence overtakes them before he mutters, "What's there to talk about?"

What's done is done. They can't go back and reverse past events.

Elara sighs, circling her arm around his waist and breathing in the familiar scent of him. Against her, around her – he is everywhere and nowhere all at once.

"Elara," he says, lifting a hand to caress her cheek. He purses his lips and murmurs, "I know it'll take time before we…can be like we were before. But you said it yourself – we _have_ time now. We've got all the time in the world. What happened in that penthouse doesn't change the fact that I want a life with you."

As his voice trails off, Elara releases a breath that she hadn't realized she was holding. She looks up at him and he looks down at her, and she wonders if it could ever be as simple as that.

She swallows and breathes, "What will that life be like?" If he's aware that she's purposefully changing the subject, he doesn't complain. Neither of them talks about the fact that they aren't sure if they really have all the time in the world or not. The war isn't won yet; it's barely even been fought. There is still a chance that they will lose, and that they will be forced to return to the life that they had lived before – two souls circling endlessly, but never meeting.

Gloss just shifts a bit, tangling their legs together as he lowly muses, "I guess we have time to figure that out, too."

But even so, he paints a picture for her regardless: of returning to District 1 with her, and maybe Amelia too; of moving into a house on the edge of the desert and getting a job and supporting each other; of eating breakfast together, and lunch, and dinner, every single day without being forced to separate, and –

It's so beautifully normal that Elara closes her eyes and lets him serenade her into sleep with his gentle description of that life that is just barely within their grasp after all this time.


	57. Our love is like a poem said in night,

**Chapter Fifty Seven | Our love is like a poem said in night,**

"_I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes;_

_And but thou love me, let them find me here._

_My life were better ended by their hate_

_Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love."_

_2.2, 75-78 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Gloss is like a blue sky stretching out into the vastness of time. His sun is hot and untampered, blinding anyone who looks up at it. When he is angry, it burns so brightly that even Elara has to look away lest she be swept up in it. When he is upset, the rainclouds are unending and gloomy, and he sinks into his moods like he is made of the rain that drips down to the earth. But when he is content, he reminds her of a summer afternoon, when the temperature is not too hot or too cold, and the world is vibrant with a color that exists only beneath the sun's warm rays. The blue skies are dotted with clouds so white that they take your breath away, and there is a gentle breeze that sweeps them across the sky as if they are meandering from one point to another._

_She likes him no matter which mood he's in, but she most especially likes it when he's happy, because the warmth that radiates from his eyes in those moments have a dizzying way of warming her, too._

_She watches as he strides across his bedroom, bare as the day he was born and completely unconcerned about it. He'd gone to retrieve a bottle of liquor from the other room. They had just spent the night locked in each other's arms, ignorant to the outside world in a way lovers often are, and probably would have remained like that had Elara not offhandedly remarked that it is her birthday next week. She hadn't mentioned it because she had wanted him to take notice of it. It had merely been a remark that was made in response to something he had said, but he'd taken it more seriously than she had expected._

_The great Gloss Augustine doesn't seem the type to care about birthdays, after all._

_He sets two tumblers down on the bedside table and, with a smiling flourish, uncaps the liquor. As he pours her a glass, he shrugs, "We should have a proper toast, since you'll be back in District 5 by the end of the week."_

_She reaches for the glass he hands her and mutters, "I already regret telling you."_

_He just gives her a look and pours himself a glass. As he rejoins her in bed, he nudges her with a scoff. "Don't be stubborn, Winston. You should be grateful. I don't do this for just anyone." When she raises an eyebrow at him, he gestures the liquor and insists, "This is expensive stuff! I don't like sharing."_

_His petulant tone makes her break out into soft laughter. He seems rather pleased with himself for drawing such a sound from her and throws the blankets back over them before leaning against the headboard. He stretches out an arm behind her head and hums contentedly when she fits herself against his bare form, enjoying the feel of her skin against his._

"_I haven't celebrated my birthday in years," she tells him, forgetting about the liquor in her hand as she lays her temple against his chest. She curls her legs over his as they sit there in his bed and murmurs, "Amelia stopped fussing over me ages ago. She says I'm too much work."_

_Elara glances up at him with a wry look and he bites his lip to stop himself from chuckling._

_With a shrug, he agrees, "You are too much work, Winston."_

_She pinches his side in retribution, and he snickers. Then, turning his face to hers, he presses his lips gently against her forehead and lifts his glass up. He catches her eye with a subtle smile and taps his glass against hers before lifting it to his lips. She hums and does the same, making an appreciative noise at the taste of the finely aged whiskey. She has no doubt that this stuff is expensive. Gloss doesn't buy cheap things when he can help it, and his liquor cabinet is something he happens to take great pride in, much to her continued amusement._

"_That wasn't much of a toast," she tells him after a moment, just to be difficult. The huffing look he sends her at the words is work the effort. She does enjoy getting him riled up._

_Gloss rolls his eyes at her. "Should I do it again until you're satisfied?" But, instead of lifting his glass once more, he goes to put it down on the table and turns to drag her into his lap, fingers tickling over her sides. She squeals in surprise, but trying to wrangle his hands away from her is rather difficult when she's still holding her own whiskey._

_The rough movements of her struggling make some of it splash over the sides of the glass, and Gloss hisses when the cold liquid lands on his chest._

_She pauses, then smirks widely. When she leans down to lick it off of him, he can only sit there in subdued surprise at the feel of her hot tongue dragging over his skin. When she kisses over his nipple and up his chest, he clenches his jaw and reaches to take her glass away from her. He takes a generous sip of it before setting it beside the other one, and when he forces her chin up to kiss her solidly on the mouth, she can taste the whiskey on his tongue._

"_Mmm…you taste good when you're covered in whiskey," she purrs at him, scratching her nails down his chest and loving the way he shivers beneath her touch._

_He growls into her mouth and lowly murmurs, "Careful, Winston – you might give me ideas that are better left alone."_

_She laughs as his hands drag up her body from ass to shoulders. The warmth of his touch makes her foggy and happy, and sitting on top of him like this almost makes her feel as though she is a queen. Their kiss dissolves, but neither of them moves away. Instead they linger there together, breathing in as the nighttime atmosphere shudders through the room._

_Gloss opens his eyes to look at her. There's something almost gentle in his hazel gaze. Something soft and satisfied, as if having her in his lap and in his arms is all he's ever wanted._

"_Back home, when my family was still alive, we used to have this tradition where you got to pick one birthday wish," he tells her, thumbing circles over her hip. She hums, looking interested – not because of birthday wishes, but because she always loves it when he opens up to her about his past. Gloss is a private man. He doesn't like talking about the memories he has of his family. She thinks it makes him sad to remember that his parents are no longer alive, though he's never outright admitted to such feelings._

_Elara chuckles, running her fingers through his hair as she wonders, "Oh? Are you letting me in on this tradition?"_

_Her heart feels light in her chest at the mere thought of him welcoming her into a tradition that used to mean something important to him._

"_Mmm…want do you want, Elara?" he whispers, caressing her so gently that his fingertips feel like a breeze against her skin. The soft quality of his eyes makes her heart surge in her chest. When he looks at her like this, she feels so incredibly happy._

_She smiles at him and ponders the question. What does she want? She wants a lot of things. She wants to be rid of the Capitol and the lifestyle she is forced to live. She wants to stop having to go to hotel rooms and allow herself to be used and ruined by her clients. She wants to live quietly, without being noticed by the rest of the world. She wants him to be with her even when they aren't in the Capitol. To be able to love him without anything holding her back. To be able to tell him that she wants every single part of him._

_But – she can't have any of that._

_She turns her eyes from his and pulls back, idly thumbing over his collar. She admits, "Everything I want is out of my reach."_

_For a long moment, Gloss doesn't respond. He just stares at her quietly as the room swallows them whole, and thinks that if she had asked him that question, his answer would probably be the same._

_What he's always wanted is the freedom to live his life away from the Capitol's clawing grasp. What he's wanted more recently is her._

_All of her. Not just the pieces that he's able to claim on nights like these, when they can pretend for a few hours that they belong to each other._

_He sighs and drags her forward, cradling her in his arms. She buries her face into his neck and they both fall silent. A strange solemnity overcomes them. It is almost sorrow. It verges on the thud of heartache and hangs upon the balance of solace._

_Then, after several minutes in which Gloss holds her silently, he reaches for the whiskey again. She pulls back curiously when he holds it up, leaning forward to press his mouth to hers. Against her lips he says in a quiet, reverent voice, "To Elara Winston. May she always take my breath away."_

_The words are so unexpectedly beautiful that Elara feels tears gathering in her eyes. She swallows them back and laughs haltingly. The edge of her sorrow fits itself into her voice._

_Gloss reaches up to brush his thumb beneath her eye, wiping away some of the moisture that her unbidden tears draw forth. Her forehead comes to rest against his. With desperate fingers, she tilts his face up to kiss him, sinking into his body so effortlessly that if anyone's breath is taken away, it is hers._

"_I want you, Gloss," she whispers to him, and pulls him down onto the bed._

_As he goes, pressing her into the mattress and fitting his body against hers, he breathes, "I can give you that."_

_Maybe this intimacy is the only thing he can give her. Maybe it's all he'll ever be able to give._

* * *

The other Victors adore Amelia. She sweeps them off their feet with her drawling comebacks and her smart words. She blatantly flirts with Finnick just for the hell of it, despite the fact that Annie is often glued to his side. The redheaded Victor doesn't seem to mind though – probably because Amelia's flirtations are so hilariously cringe worthy. Elara knows she does it on purpose. Amelia isn't even truly flirting with Finnick himself; she's flirting with the boundaries between the quiet citizen and the rebel. She's done it her whole life, so why stop now? Amelia has always been a rebel without a cause.

In any case, Finnick flirts right back because he thinks it's fun and because he's insane, and Elara just rolls her eyes at their ridiculous behavior.

Johanna gets a kick out of Amelia, too. It's probably because Amelia is very similar to Johanna where it counts. They both hate authority of any kind, they like to complain about District 13, and they're the most rebellious people Elara knows. It doesn't surprise her that they've formed an instant connection despite the age gap.

Cashmere seems to have taken a particular liking to Amelia. Perhaps it's because she's spent the last eight years hearing about Amelia's antics from Elara, but it's almost as if the two have known each other for their whole lives. Elara thinks with begrudging amusement that Amelia sees Cashmere as the cool sister she never had. Whenever she sees her, she attaches herself to the blonde's side and hardly bats an eye when Cashmere is too busy to acknowledge her properly.

It doesn't seem to matter how much Cashmere snaps at her to leave her be in those instances – Amelia seems to know that the Victor doesn't really mind her presence, and she rarely stops gushing about Cashmere's many talents whenever she's with Elara. It would have probably driven Elara crazy in any other circumstances, but as it is, she's happy that Amelia is finding her own way in this place. And, more specifically, keeping herself out of trouble.

The younger Winston sister has even managed to do something that Elara herself hasn't yet accomplished with any significant accuracy, which is to befriend the Mockingjay herself. Oh, she loves Katniss Everdeen and her dark haired companion. Elara's only met Gale a number of times, but the calm manner in which he treats Amelia is telling. He's used to being around stubborn girls, and it helps that him and Katniss are closer to Amelia in age. Katniss herself doesn't seem to mind Amelia all that much, though she's got a lot on her plate these days and isn't around very often, which makes it difficult to tell for sure.

As for Gloss, well…Amelia still hasn't gotten over the incident with the hospital gown, when she had walked in on him hobbling around his room before being cleared and moved out of the hospital wing. It hadn't been a particularly scandalous moment, really, but she likes to crassly bring it up whenever he's around. Gloss, naturally, always has something to say on the matter and isn't at all apologetic about it, which Amelia loves, because neither is she.

Other than that, she seems to find Gloss fascinating. She's spoken to him a number of times over the years whenever he'd call Elara in District 5, and she gravitates towards him in a way that's uniquely different from how she treats the other Victors. Sometimes she gives him a hard time because she's Amelia and she can't help herself, and other times she just acts like a normal teenager who has an endless amount of questions about District 1 and being a Career and dating her sister – of which she always finds something to harp on.

Gloss thinks she's hilarious. At first, she had frustrated him with her unending questions, but once Amelia had asked if Elara had ever shown him her ripped up star underwear, he had quickly decided that she was worth keeping around, if only because she has opened up an endless source of teasing regarding Elara, which happens to be a hobby that he has quickly perfected over the course of the week with Amelia's help.

In any case, the Victors adore Amelia, and Elara is glad for it. It gives Amelia something to do besides trying to become a rebel soldier.

"What the hell is this, anyway?" her younger sister demands as they sit in the cafeteria some days later. They have all quickly realized that the food selections here in District 13 are dismal at best, and inedible at worst, though it certainly beats eating hospital food.

Finnick makes a face and agrees, "It look gross." He catches Amelia's eye and smirks, "Open wide, sweetheart," as he lifts her spoon to handfeed her.

Across the table, Elara rolls her eyes and drawls, "Don't encourage her, Finnick. She's already useless as it is."

Amelia glowers at her. "I'm not useless!"

The elder Winston sister just snorts and dryly responds, "Then why am I the one cleaning up after you? I'll bet our house in District 5 is in shambles since I've been gone so long."

Amelia opens her mouth to argue, but then shrugs and mutters, "It could use a cleaning, that's true. But at least I'm not batshit crazy when it comes to scrubbing everything down. You're a germophobe, Elara."

Elara barks out a laugh and says, "And you're a brat!"

Amelia just sagely nods in agreement, which only makes Elara roll her eyes again. The little argument isn't a cause for concern though. They always argue about something. They always have and they probably always will. The other Victors have quickly come to accept that. Most of the time, they even find their spats amusing.

"I'm learning so much about you that I didn't know before, Winston," Gloss smirks as he takes a bite of bread. He slants his eyes over to the woman sitting by his side and chuckles when she makes a face at him.

"Oh, I have a ton of stories about Elara that I'd be happy to share," Amelia sweetly says, while giving her sister a smirk.

Elara just scoffs and mutters, "Right back at you." She smirks too and slowly muses, "Like that time when you were nine and you told everyone that you had a crush on the mayor's son after he pushed you into the mud, just to get back at him? And the time when you were fifteen and you had to get up really early to go to the lab for that school project, and you were half asleep so you forgot your pants and nearly walked right out of the Village before realizing it? And the time – "

"Okay, okay," Amelia cuts in with an eyeroll. "I get it. You have more memories because you're older. But I've still seen you in a _ton_ of embarrassing moments."

At her side, Gloss rests his chin on his palm and smirks, "Oh? Do tell." The other Victors seem a little too eager, too.

Elara glowers at Gloss for encouraging her, but Amelia is already launching into said moments with a vengeance. "You used to get up really early just to go see that boy that you liked, remember? And then one day you came back from the school lab with your shirt on backwards and you said it was because of a 'lab incident', but we all knew it was because you made out with that boy."

Amelia makes a kissy face at Elara, who glares at her with a blush. Gloss isn't quite as amused. He raises an eyebrow at Elara, who grumbles, "It _was_ a lab incident. The hem of my shirt caught on fire."

He snorts quietly and she elbows him. Amelia crows, "And after you became a Victor, you kept a stash of Capitol Weekly magazines under your – mmph!"

Elara reaches out to slap a hand over her sister's face. If her cheeks had been blushing before, they are a furious red now. She casts a disparaging glower at Amelia and says, "You brat!"

Finnick smirks and waggles his eyebrows. His voice is purposefully seductive when he coyly wonders, "What sort of magazines did you buy, Elara dear?"

Elara glares at him and snaps, "They were just normal magazines!"

Finnick smirks wider in response, especially when Amelia manages to wrangle free of Elara's grasp and exclaims, "They had pictures of her _boyfriend_ in them!"

And then, slapping her hand back over Amelia's face, Elara loudly denies, "No they didn't – you little shit!" She blushes all the harder when she sees the wide smirk that Gloss is sending her, complete with a raised brow and twinkling eyes that gleam with mirth.

With a huff, Elara kicks his shin and grumbles, "It was one picture. And it wasn't even a good one."

Gloss covers his mouth with the back of his hand and clears his throat to hide his laugh, but it doesn't exactly work. After a moment spent battling the brunt of his amusement down, he wryly wonders, "Did you cut them out and tape them to your walls, Winston?"

Elara blushes bright red at this and puts her face in her hands. He only feels a tiny bit sorry for prodding her – just a tiny bit. He's far more overcome with amusement and yes, endearment, to know that she had missed him that much. He slips an arm around her waist and drags her against him with a laugh, depositing a kiss to her temple before quietly telling her, "I've never seen you blush so hard."

She shoves him halfheartedly and mumbles, "It was just one picture."

Her staunch denial only makes him smirk wider, and he drawls, "Of course it was," in a way that makes it obvious that he doesn't believe her.

She groans.

"And whenever Caesar interviewed you guys, Elara would be glued to the TV – "

"Damn it Amelia!" Elara interrupts, jumping out of her seat with another blush before griping, "I am so going to get you back for this!"

Amelia just innocently wonders, "What? It's true. You turned into such a maniac whenever you came home from the Capitol. It's not my fault that I have a lot of ammunition."

Elara huffs and pushes away from the table with a fierce glower. "I'm not hungry anymore," she declares, much to her friends' amusement as they watch her turn on her heel and leave. They are even more amused when Gloss immediately stands up to follow, sending them all a wide smirk before going to catch up.

"You _are_ a little brat," Johanna tells Amelia fondly, and Amelia snickers.

* * *

Gloss catches up to her in the hallway outside the cafeteria. She hadn't expected that he'd follow her, but it is the method in which he captures her attention that really shocks her. When he hooks his hand around her upper arm and spins her around, he barely hesitates before pressing her against the nearest wall and crowding in around her, lips coming in to kiss her.

Elara lets out a noise against his mouth and reaches up to grasp his arms, fingers clenching down into the starchy sleeves of his jumpsuit. His kiss is deep and encompassing in a way she isn't sure she's ever experienced before. It feels intrinsically different than any other. Perhaps it is because of the honesty that Amelia had dropped onto him only minutes before. Perhaps it is due to the fact that they are in a public hallway that happens to be full of people, and his display is certainly catching their attention.

She thinks that it's probably both of these things and more. She isn't used to kissing Gloss in front of people. Their entire relationship has been kept firmly in the dark because it had been too dangerous to openly show affection, but suddenly the world is opening up to them. As he cups her face and draws her into him, it is like they have transcended some layer of it that she hadn't known existed.

"Gloss – " she tries to say, but he swallows her words with another kiss. His hand grips her waist firmly, keeping her against the wall even as she halfheartedly struggles against him. She doesn't really want to stop kissing him, but the fact that people are staring at them is making her a little uncomfortable.

He breaks the kiss after a long moment. He looks down at her with eyes that seem to smolder with some remnant of passion that they have not yet tried to return to. Elara stares up at him, still reeling in surprise at his impromptu kiss, and thinks that he is beautiful – navy jumpsuit and all. And then, in a low voice, he whispers, "I love you."

Really, she can't possibly stop the smile from spreading over her face. She clutches his arm firmly and tips her head back against the wall, grinning up at him as her surprise takes a new turn. If she hadn't expected that kiss, then she certainly doesn't expect him to tell her that.

The words are new and fresh. They had only been spoken once before, in that penthouse suite, but they had been shrouded with such heartbreak and grief that their utterance had been different, then. They had said the words because they didn't think they had much time left. But now…

They have all the time they need, and the words are so poignant and hopeful that Elara can only reach up to bring his head back to hers and kiss him again, and whisper, "I love you too," against his mouth.

Gloss laughs into the kiss and gathers her up against him, and suddenly the fact that they are being stared at vanishes from Elara's perception like so many grains of sand falling from an hourglass. Those people don't matter. All that matters is that they are together, and safe, and –

Loved.

* * *

President Coin calls for them a few days later. Elara isn't sure what to expect, other than some sort of assignment. Cashmere seems to think that they'll all receive jobs or something. She's not sure what to think about that. She's never really had a job before. She never had a chance to have such a normal thing, considering how often she would be invited to the Capitol. All her dreams of landing a job in the Grid were over long ago.

When the Victors shuffle into President Coin's office several weeks after their arrival, though, it seems that the president has even bigger plans for them.

"Welcome," she greets, and gestures to the metal table that sits in the center of the room like a gleaming beacon. "Please take a seat."

Not only are Elara, Gloss, and Johanna there, but so is Finnick, Cashmere, and Katniss. It seems that Coin wants to gather together all of the Victors in one area. Even Haymitch is there, already lounging at the table looking bored as he sits beside another man with greyish blonde hair. The man looks vaguely familiar, but Elara doesn't remember who he is until Coin introduces him.

"This is Plutarch Heavensbee. You may recognize him," she says as she takes a seat at the head of the table.

Mention of Heavensbee, a former Gamemaker, has Gloss tensing up beside Elara. She casts a glance at him but he doesn't return it. He's too busy staring at one of the men who has ruined their lives so many times before. Haymitch evidently sees the look (Gloss isn't exactly trying to be discrete), and snorts, "Relax, kid. This guy was in charge of the escape plan during the Quell. You can trust him."

Gloss just raises an eyebrow at Plutarch, but remains silent. He might not like the fact that a former Gamemaker is here in District 13, but he isn't about to let this prejudice get in the way of the meeting. He wants answers just as much as the rest of them.

Coin clears her throat at the head of the table and they all turn to look at her. For the leader of the rebellion, she is a slim woman who appears outwardly weak, but there is a certain way about her which speaks of an inward strength that is not so easily shaken. Her appearance is somewhat severe with her clipped hair and grey eyes, and her voice is as brittle as the rest of her.

"I'll be quick," President Coin says. "You are all Victors, and many of you are experienced fighters. We need people like that to fight in this rebellion, but even more than that, we need the Victors to make a public stand against the loyalists. Show the Capitol that they do not agree with its methods and won't sit back any longer."

Elara sits back and digests her words curiously. It makes sense, she supposes. Warfare isn't as black and white as the battle itself. It is layered with other battles that are not only fought with guns, but also with other weapons. Intellect, politics, propaganda.

Coin puts her hands on the tabletop and explains, "I would like to formally invite you all to take part in the war efforts. Katniss has agreed to be our Mockingjay and spends much of her time filming propos for the cause. Beetee has done wonders in the electrical engineering unit of this district, inventing all manners of devices to further our resources." She pauses to gesture at Finnick and Cashmere before saying, "Some of you have begun training to become soldiers. I would be pleased if the rest of you took a more active role, now that you have recovered from your time in the Capitol."

A short silence falls around them as they all consider her words. Cashmere had mentioned, before, that Coin would be assigning them jobs. No one gets a free handout in District 13, even if they're Victor refugees. It takes a lot of manpower to operate a place like this. It doesn't surprise any of them that Coin wants them to make themselves useful. Of course, not everyone seems to agree.

Johanna makes a scoffing sound from her seat and crosses her arms. Her eyes are challenging when she lifts her gaze to Coin's. Her voice is even more so when she bluntly says, "There's no fucking way I'm signing up to be a soldier. I've already lost everything to the Capitol. I'm not going to lose my life too."

Coin, however, seems to expect this. She nods slowly and leans back. "Then we will place you in a different department. Anyone else?"

Gloss glances over at Elara with a solemn gaze. She knows what he's going to say before he actually says it, and she isn't entirely sure she appreciates him making decisions for her when he does.

"Elara isn't a fighter," he gruffly murmurs, and crosses his arms too. Even in the jumpsuit, and even despite the weeks spent in the Capitol, his arms flex beneath the fabric. The sight of his physical strength only seems to underline his words that much more.

Elara sends him a look and says as if he hadn't spoken, "I'd like to join Beetee in the engineering unit. That's where my talents lie."

Gloss relaxes a bit at her words, but she doesn't look at him. He's right, of course – she isn't a fighter and she knows it. She also knows that his words had been said out of concern for her safety, but she still feels like he's undermined her in some way. Just because she can't fight like he can doesn't mean she isn't useful.

Coin doesn't care to understand the subtle dynamics between the two of them, though. All she cares about is utilizing the resources that she has, and right now, the Victors are said resources.

"Very well. I'm sure Beetee would appreciate some help," she replies, and then turns to Gloss.

He doesn't shirk beneath her hard stare. He's far too stubborn for that. Instead, he merely shrugs and says, "I have to keep my sister out of trouble. I'll join her in the training room tomorrow."

Elara doesn't say anything. She's not surprised to hear this, either, but she doesn't much like the idea of Gloss going off to fight in this war. Maybe it's selfish of her to want to keep him safe and at her side, but after everything that they've been through, she can't blame herself for it.

Humans are selfish creatures, after all.

Coin looks pleased, at least. "I'm glad to hear that. You'll go through the initial physical and weaponry testing in the morning and you'll be assigned a squad. Johanna, perhaps you'd like to remain here to discuss your options. I'd like everyone to start on their new schedule tomorrow."

The Victor from 7 just snorts and doesn't respond. The others, though, seem to have realized that they've been dismissed and move to get up. Elara is quick to leave the room. She doesn't want to think about Gloss going off to fight, and because of this, she figures that she needs some space. They've been in close quarters for days now and so far it's been wonderful, but she needs time to think. Suddenly, the war seems to be right on the horizon, whereas before it had merely been a speck on their radar – an incoming blip that had still been far away. It doesn't feel so very far away now.

She disappears down the hall before Gloss can catch up with her, and veers off into a sea of other jumpsuits in her efforts to vanish. Gloss, though, doesn't try to stop her. He knows Elara Winston well enough by now to know when she needs space. Instead, he just looks at his sister and sighs, "…Cafeteria?"

He's hungry. It's past lunchtime by now.

Cashmere just nods and together, they head down the hall.


	58. And rarely sees the tender press of dawn

**A/N: At this point, it's a bit redundant to even bother with smut warnings, but the flashback in this chapter ended up getting a little out of hand, so...you've been warned I suppose! Hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifty Eight | And rarely sees the tender press of dawn;**

"_O Fortune, Fortune! All men call thee fickle._

_If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him_

_That is renowned for faith? Be fickle, Fortune,_

_For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long_

_But send him back."_

_3.5, 60-64 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

"_Are you feeling better?" he asks her, eyes half lidded as he peers at Elara from the other end of the bathtub. Their legs are tangled around each other in the cramped space. Her Capitol apartment doesn't have much in the way of bathroom accommodations, but he can't find it in himself to complain even though he's a little uncomfortable in this small tub. He's a muscled Career Victor who is far too tall and hulking for such a tiny space, which is somewhat amusing to Elara. He isn't blind to said amusement._

_Before she can answer his question, he nudges her with his knee and mutters, "Shut up, Winston. I can practically hear your thoughts."_

_She purses her lips but isn't able to hide her smirk, and makes no attempt at keeping the humor from her voice when she drawls, "This was your idea, Gloss."_

_When he scoffs at her and rolls his eyes, she grins._

"_I am feeling better though," she tells him, leaning back and lifting her arms behind her head. The movement stretches out her upper body, but the copious amount of bubble bath she'd added to the water hides most of it from his view. He thinks it's rather unfortunate._

_He makes an unimpressed sound in the back of his throat and looks down at her as if he's trying to will the bubbles away with the sheer force of his eyes. If anything, Elara is even more amused at his efforts. He isn't even trying to be subtle about his ogling of her, but to be perfectly honest, she rather likes it. She's never found her body to be overly attractive. She's too thin and petite, and her breasts are too small and her form is too sharp. But under Gloss's attentive stare, she feels like the most beautiful creature in existence._

_He frowns and raises his eyes to hers. The petulant expression on his face makes her snicker._

"_What's wrong?" she wonders, even though she knows full well._

_He's aware of her knowledge too – one look at her smirking face is enough – and glowers, "Why did you put so much bubble bath in here? Is this supposed to be some kind of torture?"_

_His blatant admission of his obvious thoughts makes her turn her face into her hand and laugh. She hums, curling her shin around his thigh. His eyes blaze warningly at her, but he isn't surprised at all when she ignores said warning._

"_You said you wanted to take a bath," she reasons with a shrug, and coyly tilts her head at him as her eyes delve over his chest. "If it was up to me, I'd have already had you at least twice by now."_

_He inhales deeply at this. His emblazoned gaze only darkens, sweeping her up in a look that is full of stagnant desire._

"…_At least twice?" he repeats, fingers flexing over the sides of the tub. He sits up, looking like he's seconds from dragging her forward. There is a predatory gleam in his eye that makes her shiver, and she sinks deeper into the water as if she's hoping that it will save her from the aftermath of her teasing. Still, she can't stop the wicked smirk that edges crassly over her mouth._

"_Mmhmm," she purrs, and then sighs with dramatic mournfulness as she tips her head back to rest against the porcelain and moans, "I've been waiting to see you all day. I couldn't think of anything but having you inside me. I had to…mmm, take care of myself because it was too much to bear."_

_Gloss looks like he's being strangled and liberated all at once. He immediately tenses, shoulders stiff and unyielding as he works his jaw. His eyes flash at her, knuckles white as he grips the tub. He looks like he's seconds away from going insane and it makes her grin salaciously as she watches his expression crowd over with lust._

_With a growl, he heaves himself forward and mutters, "You little wench."_

_The word makes her laugh aloud. "Wench?" she splutters around her laughter, and Gloss growls again._

_He ignores her teasing to instead demand, "Show me."_

_The sudden order makes her pause in confusion, lifting an eyebrow curiously. He is quick to explain himself though, when he lowly commands, "Touch yourself, Elara."_

_He is suddenly a king bandying out orders, and he looks immensely pleased when she immediately shivers. No amount of water or bubbles can hide her reaction this time. His mouth curves up into a vicious smile as he leans back against the tub, waving his hand as if he's giving her a royal decree._

"_Show me what you look like when you touch yourself and think of me," he murmurs. His voice is like sin itself and she is thoroughly tempted by its call._

_She laughs breathlessly and tips her head back, half surprised at the turn of this situation but mainly astounded at the lust that is so quick to spiral through her. Being with him is so easy. Sometimes she is overwhelmed at the crashing simplicity of her craving; the way her body is so quick to awaken to his._

_She pushes the bubbles away from her breasts, revealing her flesh to his eyes. With an arch of her body, they lift above the water. She cups them, rubbing over her nipples as she tilts her head back and closes her eyes. She tries to pretend that she is alone, but it is very hard to do so when she can feel his hungry gaze drinking in her every movement._

_One hand dips into the water, following the path of her body until she reaches her core. Though the bubbles hide the way she rubs at herself, they don't hide her expression as it crumbles just so, or the low hum of sound that scratches from her throat when she sighs his name. She lifts her leg to hook her knee over the side of the tub, stretching her thighs apart to better accommodate her hand. The water softens her touch, making it seem almost efflorescent. It isn't her movements themselves that instill within her this potent dash of desire, but rather the knowledge that Gloss is sitting only a few scant feet away watching her pleasure herself that drives the passion deeply into her._

_She hums again and furrows her brow, squeezing her breast and pinching at her nipple as her fingers fly over her folds. In a low voice, she murmurs his name, opening her eyes to stare at him. The strength of that one look is apparently enough to shatter his resolve. In seconds he is heaving himself forward, lifting himself until he is kneeling over her. One hand comes to rest on the edge of the tub by her head; his other drags a path of fire from her neck to her breast. He is quick to move her hand out of his way so that he can touch her himself, cupping her breast in his palm and enveloping it completely around his fingers._

_He drags his thumb firmly over her nipple and lowers his mouth to capture the taut bud between his lips, administering a rough suck that makes her keen breathlessly for him. Her wet skin is heavenly and he loves how slippery she is beneath his touch. How the hot water makes her body heat warmer than usual and how the blaze of desire that shoots through her eyes seems to clench around some core part of himself. He feels the shift in the deepest dwellings of his body, so deep that it seems almost to impact his very soul._

_When his hand follows the path of her body into the water, her breath hitches. His fingers are light and barely there even as he traces down her side and skims over her hipbone. He watches her closely, face lingering a hairsbreadth away as his fingers join hers to curl into her heat. Lust slams into him so hard that when he inhales, it is a ragged sound; a shuddering scrap of want so potent that he almost can't bear it._

_Their fingers join together. It is a dance and a torture all in one, exquisite and encompassing. When his forefinger curves around hers to guide her touch into the clench of her womanhood, Elara lets out a roiling gasp that sends fire to his very bones. And, when he joins her there, too, dipping his finger into her heat so that they are both inside her, the moan she releases is enough to make him crazy._

"_Thrust for me," he breathes, not wanting this moment to end despite the lurch of desire that has quickly unfurled within him. He wants to do everything at once – watch her, touch her, take her – and he feels as if he doesn't know where to begin._

_Elara doesn't look away from him as she slowly thrusts in and out of her core. He feels her every movement and joins her, thrusting his own finger and watching an array of desperate emotions blanket her expression. She breathes out, turning her face to his, and whispers, "Kiss me, Gloss."_

_He smiles at her and, even in the intense heat of the moment, she smiles back. It is easy; simple. He makes intimacy feel like it's a living breathing thing that shouldn't be shied away from. Sex is something to revel in, with him. The joining of their bodies isn't merely a physical act. It's not something that can be skimmed over. They fall into each other so deeply every time._

_He nudges his mouth against hers in a brief kiss. It's almost worshipful, the way he rains his kisses over her lips and face. Their mouths meet over and over in sporadic encounters made all the more potent by the way their fingers shift within her and rub pleasure against her folds._

_Then, kissing her more solidly, Gloss removes his hand from her and catches her wrist. For a moment his fingers entangle with hers below the water, wrapped together in a gentle dance as he kisses her deeply. His tongue darts out to trace her bottom lip. He drags it into his mouth and sinks his teeth lightly into her._

"_See what you do to me?" he murmurs, and pulls her hand to feel the jut of his erection that is hidden below the water. She blindly grasps him with a low moan, amazed at how hard he is. He is velvet steel, soft but stiff. His rigid flesh twitches in her hand and his eyes flutter when she thumbs her way up it._

_The smile that she sends him is pleased. He feels the corner of his mouth quirk up at the sight of it._

"_Are you proud?" he chuckles, returning his hand to her heat to continue touching her. He sinks his knuckle into her folds as she circles her fingers around him firmly, and he swallows back a shuddering wave of desire when she gives him a long, slow stroke._

_Elara makes an appreciative grunt and responds, "Yes."_

_He hums against her cheek and slips his finger into her again, loving the way she immediately clenches around him at the intrusion. Her smile is smug, almost. Prideful in a way that verges almost on arrogance, but is softened by the contented glimmer of her eyes as they stare into his. His mouth tilts up, eyes closing briefly when she thumbs over his swollen tip and then slides back down his erection. Her fingertips rub just so against his inner thighs, and the shiver that captures him as a result is almost overmastering._

"_You should be," he gasps, voice more breathless than he means it to be. He gets revenge on her by rubbing firm circles over the top of her clit and watching how his touch reduces her to a shivering mess. When he leans in to kiss her, he says against her mouth, "You're the only one who makes me this crazy."_

_His admission does funny things to her. For a split second, her heart lurches as if she's on a roller coaster, spiraling through the air and twisting upside down. She wonders if he knows how equally reciprocated his confession is. She's never felt such passion from another man. He makes her feel like she's a live wire. His touch sparks her so intensely that she feels the effects of it throughout her entire body._

"_Gloss, I want you," she moans, giving him an indulgent squeeze. He exhales sharply and growls against her mouth, lifting his hand from her core so that he can tilt her head back and kiss her hungrily. Their mouths surge together. She drags her touch up his body, moaning at the brawny feel of him and delighting in the flex of his muscles beneath her hands._

_Elara gently pushes him back, breaking the kiss and leaning forward. For a brief moment, they sit there, suspended in time – until she stands up and the water sluices down her form. He sits back and devours the sight of her, half tempted to pull her back into him because he almost can't bear the thought of how long it will take to towel themselves off._

_She pauses to study him and chuckles, "I like the sight of you kneeling in front of me."_

_He raises an eyebrow at her and stands up too, his body rising from the water. She is almost taken aback at how powerful he looks. He seems to dwarf the bathtub entirely. His hulking frame is too large for this small space, and the stiff jut of his erection as it rises into the air makes for a commanding sight._

_She gazes down at it and reaches out to lay her hand over his hip, admiring his body for a moment before rising her eyes back up to his. He's staring down at her with eyes that are hard with passion. She can't help but shiver beneath them; he looks like he's ready to devour her whole._

"_I would be happy to kneel down and pleasure you, Winston," he says lowly, sending her a smug smirk as he steps out of the tub. Then, turning back, he reaches out to help her and goes to retrieve a towel._

_His words sink into her as he rubs her down. There is something intrinsically luxurious about having him dry her. His passion seems to have cooled off for a moment, because he appears to be enjoying dragging the towel over her skin and rubbing his hands down every inch of her form. She hums and watches him, eyes flashing when he sinks to one knee so as to towel off her legs._

_He looks up at her, eyes gleaming with knowledge. He knows exactly what he's doing to her. He's aware of every single thought that passes through her mind, because each one is playing out over her face as clear as day._

_When he turns the towel to his own body, he is much faster. Elara reaches forward to assist, but he just swats her away with a chuckle. The first moment he's able to, he drops the towel and then turns to her. She isn't exactly expecting him to scoop her up, arms bandying around her thighs as he lifts her over his shoulder._

"_Gloss!" she complains halfheartedly._

_He snickers as he walks them out of the bathroom and doesn't stop until he's throwing her down on the bed with a heave of muscle, looking utterly unapologetic about his manhandling as he grabs her legs and drags her to the edge of the mattress._

"_You said you wanted me to kneel," he says, eyes flashing hungrily at her, and pushes her legs open. He pauses only for a moment to look down at her, taking her in as she lays there looking all surprised and aroused, and then ducks his head to taste her._

_In truth, he doesn't just taste her; he devours her._

_It takes all of two seconds to have her writhing on the mattress, a panting mess as he laps at her folds and sucks at her clit. It's like her body has lost all sense of self-governance. She twists and arches and whimpers and claws, fingers scratching over the sheets and clenching into his hair, legs tight around his head, voice murmuring words that she doesn't even hear over the rush of blood that pumps through her veins. He doesn't let up at all, doesn't go easy on her or draw it out. He is rough in a gentle way, teeth sinking lightly against her just enough to feel but not enough to cause pain. He wrangles with her legs until he's shoving them open and pressing them down, and then his hands are sliding up her body to touch her skin, her naval, her abdomen, until they cup her breasts and thumb over her nipples._

_All the while she makes sounds for him that he could never have imagined in his wildest dreams – noises that remind him of smoky fog and smoldering whiskey and dulcet velvet; sounds that skim over the contours of the tangible and the intangible, and bury themselves into his skin until he's rock hard from wanting her so badly._

_He moans against her core and drags his touch over her body. He can't get enough of her. She's warm and solid beneath his fingers, panting and whimpering from his attention. When he drags his tongue over her in one long lick and then sucks at the top of her clit, she shivers into the mattress as if she's a tree in a hurricane that is seconds away from being uprooted._

_That's when he stops, jerking back from her so quickly that it takes Elara several moments to realize that he is no longer there. Several moments is all he needs to press his knee into the mattress and sink inside her, guiding his rigid length into her so quickly that she can barely follows his movements. When he hilts himself into her with one deep thrust, though, her reaction is well worth it._

_She moans loudly, voice breaking off as he leans down to kiss her. She gasps his name as if it's the only word she knows, clenching her nails into his biceps as he drives her hips against the mattress with powerful roiling thrusts. He steals her breath so efficiently that she hardly remembers she ever had it to begin with._

"_Oh God," she keens, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him deeply inside her. His stiff manhood hits her in places that makes her see stars. She's so aroused that it takes him just a few relentless thrusts before she's coming around him with a choking heave._

_He groans when he feels her clench down on him and adjusts his angle so that every downward movement is presses him deeper than the last. He loses himself in her, feeling wild and raw and untampered. Like the edge of a storm blazing over the horizon, he takes her. It isn't lovemaking in itself; it's fulfilling a need, a craving, a want – it's finally coming back together with a crash after being so long separated. It's weeks of missing her and yearning for her in whatever way he can have her; a cumulation of desire that has driven them both insane. And it is only now, in this frenzy of passion, that their insanity is driven away._

"_Gloss," she whines, fingers digging into him as she feels herself coming again. Her hips rush up to meet his, but the powerful thrusts of his body pin her back down. She is overcome by the domineering way he takes her, amazed at the strength of his body compared to the reverent softness of his eyes. He looks at her like she's everything he dreams about even as he slams himself into her heat again and again._

"_Come for me," she tells him – demands, more likely. She wants to feel him come undone, wants to watch him spin out of control until he can't bear it anymore. She drags her hands over his body, squeezing his ass as she pulls him into her, throwing her head back as his mouth comes down to kiss her throat._

_He hums against her, groaning as he hovers over her, and gasps, "Elara – "_

_The way he heaves into her neck, trembling as his orgasm overtakes him, is poignantly beautiful. The way he groans, "I missed you," against her, repeating the words several times as his climax thunders through him, makes her want to laugh and cry all at once._

_It isn't until they're both laying side by side in the bed sometime later that she breathes, "I missed you too," but she isn't quite expecting his reaction._

_He shudders, reaching out to pull her tightly against him, and buries his face into her hair. He holds her as if he's afraid that she's about to disappear on him, as if she's made of smoke that slips so easily through his fingers._

_She thinks, in a way, that she is._

* * *

When Elara returns to her room later that evening, Gloss is already there. He seems to be waiting for her, sitting on the side of the bed with his hands in front of him, twisting his fingers together in an idle fashion. When she opens the door, he looks up but doesn't say anything. He's still waiting, it seems, to figure out what she's thinking.

She doesn't say anything at first. Instead, she just closes the door and starts unbuttoning her jumpsuit. She steps out of it as if he isn't even there at all, and reaches for her nightshirt without even glancing at him. But he's looking at her, watching every move that she makes as she pulls the nightshirt on over her body and straightens it out. She can feel the weight of his eyes on her as she folds her jumpsuit and places it on the dresser. And then, having nothing else to distract herself with, Elara slowly takes a seat beside him and they sit there together on the bed, silent.

Gloss glances over at her and gingerly reaches out to take her hand, clasping it between the both of his as he draws it into his lap. He turns his eyes down to study it, thumbing over her fingers idly. He's waiting for her to say something and she knows it, so after a while Elara sighs, "…A soldier, Gloss?"

Her voice is resigned. He doesn't like it.

He looks up at her and tells her, "I don't know how to be anything else, Elara. I'm not an engineer like you. I've spent my entire life in a training center. It's all I know."

Their eyes lock. She studies him quietly and thinks about his words. Perhaps he does have a point. While she had been working her way through the difficult classes in school, doing lab assignments and homework and spending all of her spare time studying to become an engineer like her parents, he had been focused on training for the Games. He had his own school that he attended too, of course, but all of his free time had been spent in the Academy in District 1, learning how to fight.

She frowns and looks down at their hands. "I don't want you out there. It's too dangerous."

Gloss purses his mouth and swallows back a sigh. He turns to face her more fully and murmurs, "Elara, I've fought my way through two Games. You know I can take care of myself. Besides, Cashmere will look out for me like always."

When she doesn't respond, that sigh that he had been holding back comes forth, and he reaches up to tilt her head up. His hazel eyes are warm and careful when he says, "You don't have to worry about me."

Elara just scoffs and mutters, "I can't help it. I love you."

The words make him pause. He hadn't been expecting to hear them, nor had he been anticipating that they would be so abrupt and clear. It's so strange, saying those words after all this time. They've spent years skirting around the edges of them; pressing them into existence with silent kisses but never out loud. To hear her say them now with such ease makes him feel warm.

The corner of his mouth tilts up. Elara notices, of course, and smiles back. Her fingers slip around his wrists as his hand hold her face, and she leans in to whisper, "I love you, Gloss."

His breathing shallows out. With a chuckle, he leans in too and presses his forehead against hers.

"Tell me you love me back," she murmurs, sounding amused.

He stares at her for a long moment, and then before she can keep up with his actions, he is pushing her back onto the bed and hovering over her, leaning down to kiss her solidly on the mouth as he says, "I love you, you stubborn woman."

She laughs into the kiss and pulls him closer, opening her legs and welcoming him against her. It strikes her that this is the closest they have been where it concerns intimacy for weeks now. They haven't shared more than a few kisses since arriving in District 13, and Elara hasn't tried to push him for more. She wonders, now, if she should have.

It feels so incredibly good to have his weight on her. He makes her feel warm and protected even now as he takes her wrists and pushes them over her head. His kiss is deep and encompassing; it stirs within her a desire that she's been wondering if she could ever feel again.

Memories of the penthouse suite have turned into new nightmares for them both. Whenever they're together like this, it seems that there is a thick blanket of this strange awkwardness that layers over top them. She has grown accustomed to its presence between them. They've both agreed to take it slow, but with him initiating this kiss, it makes Elara wonder if perhaps taking it slow is necessary after all.

She moans against his mouth and grips his jumpsuit tightly, working at the buttons to tug it off of him. Gloss doesn't try to stop her when she pulls it down his shoulders. He merely kisses a path down her neck and nestles himself between her legs. He feels the warmth of her heat even through the thick jumpsuit, and when he grinds his lower body against hers, the moan that slides from her lips is heavenly.

But – he doesn't get very far before something catches him. It is an errant thing; a wayward wisp of memory that has him lifting his head and glancing to the other side of the room. They are the only ones in here, and yet…and yet.

He pushes himself up and breathes, "I can't do this. I can't. Elara – "

She follows him quickly and grabs his shoulders, turning him to face her. There is a haunted look in his eye; memories of that penthouse that he can't seem to rid himself of no matter how hard he tries to. When he had lifted his head to peer across the room, he had fully expected to see Magnus sitting there, watching them.

Elara must realize it, because she grips him tightly and pulls him against her, threading her fingers through his hair and whispering, "It's okay, Gloss. We've agreed to take it slow."

He just clenches his hands into her nightshirt and growls, "I don't want to take it slow. I want you – but every time I try to have you I keep thinking that bastard client is here watching us."

She feels tears well up behind her eyes, but she knows there is little she can say to make him feel better. She feels it too, after all. The intimacy that they have shared for years now has been tampered with. The ease of their connection has shattered and it is not very easy to start all over again when they have come so far.

She sighs against him and tearfully whispers, "I know. Let's just…let's just get some sleep."

Gloss is obvious upset with himself for ruining the moment, because he grumbles. He doesn't argue, though. Instead he just lets Elara guide him back down onto the mattress and gather the blankets up and over them. When he pulls her in close, he buries his face against her hair and tries not to think about the fact that they are a little more fucked up than he had thought.

The realization hits even closer to home a few hours later.

Amelia has been bunking with Cashmere for several days now, and is apparently very happy to spend time with the blonde Victor who she seems to idolize. Cashmere treats the younger girl as if she is her long lost sister. The two have become inseparable in their own way these past few weeks. In any case, though, with the living arrangements switched around, Gloss and Elara have had their own compartment to themselves, and despite the way they've been skirting around each other and the memories of their time in the Capitol, it is rather hard to ignore this particular nightmare.

It is the sound of Elara's harried breathing that draws Gloss from his sleep. At some point in the night, she seems to have rolled to the very edge of the mattress. Her legs are tangled in the blankets, which Gloss belatedly realizes have been dragged off of him, but it isn't the mere sight she makes that has a red flag going off in his head.

She's crying. The faint clutch of terror sweeps over her expression. She's murmuring beneath her breath, body twitching as she grasps the sheets with tight, clawing fingers. When she suddenly jerks upright with a tearful gasp, Gloss is quick to follow.

"Elara," he murmurs, reaching for her. At first, the feel of his hand closing over her shoulder has her cringing back. When she realizes that it's him, though, she exhales shakily and turns to face him, nearly throwing herself into his arms with a heaving sob. He holds her tightly, pulling her into his lap and twisting his fingers over her hair as he shushes her. He would never claim to be very good at soothing another, but when it comes to her, he tries his best.

"What was it?" he quietly asks, referring to her nightmare. He's found that sometimes it's better not to ask, but – there is something very vulnerable about the way she presses her face against his chest and shakes into him, and he doesn't think that this is one of those moments.

Elara only clutches him tighter and takes a few deep breathes, trying to calm herself down as best she can before she whispers, "The cell…you were being whipped again."

He clenches his jaw upon hearing her words and holds her closer, burying his face against her hair.

"I couldn't stop it…" she cries, lifting a hand to brush away the errant tears that are yet threatening her. She paws at her face angrily, stopping only when Gloss curls his fingers around her hand and draws it away from her cheeks.

Against her hair, he murmurs, "How many times do I have to tell you, Elara? It wasn't your fault. _None_ of it was your fault."

She just shakes her head and gasps, "I convinced you – "

With an impatient sigh, he pulls away to grasp her face and tip it up. "Stop being a martyr, Elara. Even if Johanna hadn't told you anything about the plan and we both went into the arena blind, we still would've ended up in that torture chamber."

Her lower lip wobbles slightly, and he sighs again, reaching out to thumb over it. "We're here now. That's all that matters."

If he thinks that these words will make her feel better, though, he's wrong. Elara just shakes her head and grapples at his wrists, holding him tightly as she breathes, "What happened to us in that penthouse…Gloss…it's changed everything."

He bites down on his tongue, nostrils flaring with an emotion that he would prefer to press down. The despair that rises up within him at hearing her heartbroken words it a heavy thing that weighs on him like nothing else, surpassing even the memories of that horrible room.

With a pursed mouth, he denies, "It hasn't."

Elara just laughs humorlessly. She leans back, wiping furiously at her face as she mumbles, "Yes it has. We both feel it. Something's different between us."

The ease of their connection is broken. It has been for weeks now, only neither of them have had the courage to give voice to it.

He leans back against the pillows and stares at her. The words that she has uttered are poignant things. They seem to weigh the air down like blocks of cement built one on top of the other; a wall spread out in the recesses between his body and hers. She's right, of course, and he knows it. But – he's afraid of accepting those changes. Afraid of realizing what they mean.

Change is a frightening thing. Even someone most prepared for it is often left ragged and torn upon its interference.

"Well what do we do, then?" he asks, because he doesn't know what else to say. He stares at the woman before him, mind flickering through memories better left in the furthest corner of his head, and wonders if there is a way to crawl back up to the pedestal that they had secured before. Yet another part of him isn't even sure if he wants to go back to it. They are finally in District 13 – safe and protected within the underground walls of it. A future that they never thought they could have lingers just beyond the iron steel entrapment, patiently waiting for them to reach out and grasp it. They could have everything they've ever wanted – a life together, a home, a future – if only they try.

But can they? Is it possible to take all of their demons and push them away? There are so many of them, stacked so precariously high that at any moment, they could all fall and take them both with them.

Elara buries her face into her knees and doesn't answer. She just shakes her head and tunnels her fingers into her hair and sighs.

The truth is, neither of them have any idea what they should do. They've been living in the shadows since arriving in District 13, carefully avoiding the reality of their situation. Maybe the reason they haven't spoken about it yet is precisely because neither of them has an answer. Maybe there isn't one.

Perhaps that is the Great Mystery, the one everyone tries to understand and never succeeds in unraveling; the question that has plagued countless broken souls and haunted every twisted corner of life's vagabond path.

How does one continue living when everything around them has crumbled away? How do you keep going, when you have no energy to continue on?

But the answer – it is known only by a select few. The answer is that there is no answer. There is only Time.

Time moves you forward. It doesn't ask for permission. It is concerned only with the press of space within a second's passage; the turn of a minute on the face of a clock; the swirl of hours and of days and of years and of decades – until suddenly the rocky road that you had tripped over and bled upon erodes into something so smooth and gentle that you wonder how it had ever been difficult to tread at all. Time has a bad reputation for being a ravager, but the truth is that it is a great healer too.

And – on some level within us all, we know this. It is a subconscious thing; a silent murmur in the dark of night. The message is passed over and ignored again and again, until that rocky road opens up in front of you and you are forced to traverse it. No one is exempt from Time's cold embrace. It holds us all in its fingers, but –

To those who have traveled far enough down that rocky road, Time is a blessing and a balm. It sets things right and takes from you the numbness of your wounds. It serenades you until your pain is only the faintest memory; a thin wisp of noise that no longer holds sway over the person you are now; the version of yourself that you have become while you were traveling down that road and running yourself ragged.

"We've only been here for a few weeks," Gloss whispers, reaching out to grasp her hand. As he pulls it into his own, he breathes, "It will get better."

Elara looks up at him and asks, "How do you know?"

And he just pulls her back into his arms and grasps the blankets, and as he's pulling them up, he smiles, "We're both too stubborn to sit back and let this fall apart."

Despite the heaviness that presses against her chest, Elara finds herself chuckling.

Gloss wraps the blanket over them and quietly adds, "I've been in love with you for years, Elara. We're gonna get through this. We just need some time."

She snuggles against him with a sigh, slipping her arm around his waist and thinks about his words.

Perhaps they are only on the beginning of their rocky road. Perhaps, with Time's assistance, the desperation of their recent wounds will heal. She has been down this road before.

Every Victor is, after all, a close friend with Time's cold embrace.


	59. Or speculates with any certain prose

**Chapter Fifty Nine | Or speculates with any certain prose**

"_Thou art not conquered. Beauty's ensign yet_

_Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks."_

_5.3, 94-95 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

"_ELARA!" Gloss shouts, voice thundering through his small apartment. His tone is aggravated and she raises her eyebrows at the sound, pausing as she pulls her arms through one of his shirts._

"_What?" she asks, lifting her voice so that he can hear her. She promptly returns to her task of buttoning the shirt up, ignoring him in favor of getting dressed. When he doesn't immediately respond, she rolls her eyes and walks out of his bedroom, peering into the kitchen._

_He's standing in front of the sink, frowning as he glowers at the dirty dishes laying inside of it. For a moment, she has to battle down the laughter that wants to spring from her lips at the sight he makes, all irritated and annoyed. Gloss is weird about cleanliness. He likes when everything has a place and gets annoyed when she makes messes and forgets to clean them up. It's amusing because he doesn't seem like the type who would care about things like that, but he does._

_He must feel her eyes on him, because he turns around to face her. She wipes away her smile before he sees it and clears her throat. His irritation is endearing, though he would probably get even more annoyed if she were to tell him that._

"_Do you not know how to wash dishes?" he grouses. It takes him a moment to realize that she's wearing his shirt. When he does, half of his annoyance is doused away in wake of the admirable way she manages to look so good in his clothes. It isn't enough to make him forget his perturbance entirely though._

_He mumbles to himself as he turns back and reaches for the soap, lathering up the sponge. Then, in a slightly louder voice, he mutters, "You're like a fucking tornado. You always turn my place upside down whenever you're here…"_

_Elara lifts a hand to her mouth to press back her smile. This time, he notices. He glares at her from the corner of his eye and she clears her throat again. The smile is quickly erased, but she can't hide the glimmer of mirth that shoots through her gaze._

"_Sorry," she tells him, but doesn't sound very apologetic about it. He huffs and flips the water on with an aggravated flourish, and she swallows back a snicker as she walks towards him. "I'll do it if you're so annoyed," she says, and starts to shove him out of the way._

_He doesn't budge. With a scoff, he says, "I don't trust you to do it right."_

_She gapes at him in mock offense and playfully retorts, "I can wash dishes just fine, thank you!"_

_He rolls his eyes at her and doesn't respond. There's the lightest trace of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth though, which she'd have to be blind not to notice. It's what makes her dart her hand into the water and flick some of it into his face. If he was truly angry with her and not just making a good show of it, she wouldn't have dared. When Gloss is well and truly angry, he isn't a man that should be trifled with. But right now…_

_He jerks back in surprise and proceeds to glower at her. She just leans against the edge of the sink with a smirk and waits for his retribution, which is definitely coming. Gloss doesn't just let people get away with messing with him without fighting back. It's partially why she loves to mess with him so much. The other reason is simply because the expressive way he gets his revenge is strangely addictive. She's perhaps a bit masochistic when it comes to him, but only because his form of retribution is usually rather enjoyable._

"_You're in one of your moods this morning, I see," he growls at her, eyeing her for a long moment. His eyes dip down over her scantily clad figure, gaze flashing as he takes in the way his shirt slips over her frame. The hem of said shirt hits her midthigh and shows off the gorgeous legs that he happens to enjoy kissing his way over._

"_Are you wearing anything underneath that?" he wonders after a brief pause, turning to face her with a dark look gleaming through his eyes. There's a silent warning in them that she is half considering heeding, but…_

_She gives him a wry smile and thoughtfully hums, "I can't recall. How strange."_

_Gloss hums too, looking downright dangerous, and growls, "Very strange."_

_She smirks vividly, turning her eyes from the water that's still running in the sink to him, and lowly purrs, "What would you do if I made more of a mess?"_

_The question is just shy of a challenge, and Gloss has always been good at catching onto those – especially when they're issued by her. He raises an eyebrow and reaches out to shut the water off as he crowds towards her. He doesn't touch her, but he's close enough for her to feel his breath against her cheek when he murmurs, "You're being very assertive today, Winston."_

_She barely manages to rein in her shiver at the low tone of his voice._

"_What are you going to do about it?" she wonders, pleased when the words are clear and strong. Her heart is racing in her chest, so fast that her blood rushes through her and pounds in her ears._

_For a moment, they stand and stare at each other. Their eyes are both challenging. It is a confrontation of the best sort, because she can't predict what he'll do or what action he'll take. All she knows for certain is that she suddenly wants him above her and around her and inside her, and she thinks she might combust if he doesn't take her._

_He edges closer and, ignoring her question, calmly says, "You mess up my apartment, forget to clean up after yourself, splash water on me, and if that isn't all…" He reaches forward to tug at the shirt she's wearing and growls, "You've stolen my clothes."_

_Elara swallows back a wave of harsh desire and smiles coyly. "…Do you want your shirt back, Gloss?"_

_His eyes flash. This time, she cannot hide the full scope of her want; it leaks into her voice and shakes through each syllable._

_With a low hum, he murmurs, "I doubt you're in the mood to play nice."_

_She smirks and steps back. He follows._

"_You're right about that," she responds lightly, feeling like prey beneath his gaze. He watches her every movement closely, taking note of the dilated eyes and the flushed cheeks and the way her fingers are twitching, as if she's trying to battle down the desire to reach for him and drag him into her. Yet even as she feels it, she takes another step back._

_He doesn't mind this game of push and pull. In fact, some instinctual part of him revels in it. There is a thud of excitement that pumps through him, thrilling into his veins and pressing desire into his body. The blood rushes down and gathers between his legs, stirring his passion into physical form. As he follows her back, he's overcome by the desire to drive himself into her, filling her and claiming her as his own. The thought makes him clench his hand into a fist, jaw working as he stares down at her. She's acting skittish in a way she rarely does, and he's pretty sure she's doing it because she knows he's enjoying it._

_He doesn't think that anyone else exists in this world that has such a strong effect on him. She plays to his strengths and bolsters his weaknesses. She's crawled her way into his heart with just a few sarcastic words and wry smiles. She lets him live out a torrent of fantasies that he doesn't even know he has, until she uncovers them and bares them to his soul. And – she doesn't question them. She doesn't wonder at them. She doesn't stop them._

"…_Are you going to take it back?" she asks, referring to the shirt. She steps backwards again, hand blindly guiding her way so that she doesn't trip. He pauses, watching her, and lets her put some distance between them._

_There is something so gratifying about the way he finally allows himself to lunge forward, thoroughly taking her off guard as he heaves her into his arms and drags his hands around her bare ass. She isn't wearing underwear after all. He feels a jolt of pleasure at the realization. It would be so easy to take her right now._

_The feel of her bare skin has him growling, "Fuck yes."_

_He hums against her ear and drags her earlobe into his mouth, biting playfully at it before hiking her higher into his arms. He makes his way to the couch and drops her down onto it. She barely has time to right herself before he's coming in and wrangling his shirt over her head, not even bothering with the buttons. She finds herself laughing when it gets caught on her chin, but her laughter is quick to die once he throws it over his shoulder with a viciously pleased smirk._

"_Now that I've reclaimed my shirt, I suppose I should get you back for stealing it in the first place," he murmurs, roving over her suddenly bare form._

_Elara hums and leans back into the couch, reaching up to hook her fingers into his beltloops. She drags him forward with a purred, "You'd better get started then."_

_He presses back an amused smile at her obvious excitement and chuckles, "You're a wildcat, Winston."_

_She snickers and reaches for the zipper of his jeans. "You bring it out of me."_

_Gloss hums with a smile and threads his fingers into her hair, tilting her head back so that he can lean in and kiss her. The kiss is soft in all this rough passion. It speaks words that are otherwise left unsaid._

"_What else can I bring out of you, I wonder?" he breathes, caressing her cheek as he peers down at her._

_She reaches up to curl her arms around his neck and drag him onto the couch with her, laughingly responding, "Let's find out."_

_And – they do._

* * *

With the onset of their new jobs, life suddenly changes for the better. Having a schedule to follow is a healthy distraction from the difficulties of their current circumstances. And, being able to do something that she loves only makes it that much better.

Elara has always had a certain affinity with Beetee. As Victors from separate districts, they never spoke much outside of the annual Games seasons, but there has always been something of a friendly comradery between them – a silent understanding, if you will, that they are both in the snake pit of the Capitol together. Two scientific minds cast out on their own.

Beetee understands her in a way that no other Victor does, and she him. When she arrives in the Engineering Unit several mornings later with her new schedule stamped to her forearm and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, he looked very pleased to see her. He smiles upon her entrance into the large room and moves his wheelchair forward.

"Elara," he greets, reaching out to grasp her hand for a moment. He squeezes her fingers and then says, "President Coin informed me that you'd be coming. I'm looking forward to working together. I think you'll enjoy my current project."

She raises her eyebrows curiously, gazing around the room and studying the layout of it as she wonders, "What are you working on?"

The room is huge. Not only are there countless worktables and counters spread around the space, layered with various tools and equipment, but the far back wall is fitted with a massive practice center complete with archery targets and dummies to test out the weapons that are invented here. It certainly isn't the sort of engineering that Elara is accustomed to, but she's always had a mechanical aptitude and is very curious to see what else the room boasts.

Beetee turns the wheelchair around and nods at her to follow. "Weapons for the Victors. I'm playing around with a bow for Katniss."

Elara lifts her eyebrows as they approach his worktable. Said weapon is sitting atop it. It seems as though the bow itself is already completed. Its gleaming metallic surface swirls with subtle designs, and the tips of it are curved just so. Elara wraps her fingers around it and is surprised at how light it is.

"It has a titanium core," Beetee explains, and points to the dark gunmetal casing as he adds, "With aluminum alloys to balance the weight."

Elara makes a sound in the back of her throat and turns the bow curiously, brushing her fingers over the neck of it. "And the arrows?" she asks a moment later, lifting her head to nod at the shafts that are sitting on the table's surface some feet away.

Beetee reaches for one and carefully turns it around in his hand. "Still a work in progress, I'm afraid. The explosives in the tips aren't setting off properly."

At this, Elara raises both her eyebrows and stares at Beetee with a growing smile. He sees the smile, winks at her, and chuckles when she snorts, "Well you're really fitting in here!"

"I'm more comfortable with electrical things," he replies with a shrug, "but the invention process is what I really crave above all else."

Elara hums in agreement and says, "I agree. But…well, do you really think you can use me? It's been years since my school days, and I never had a chance to apply my studies after graduation."

Being Reaped for the Games and sold off to the Capitol upon becoming a Victor hasn't exactly allowed her the opportunity to further herself in such a way, but Beetee merely waves away her words and tells her, "Oh, I'm quite sure you'll excel here. We need as many like-minded scientists as possible if we're going to turn the tides of the battle. What happens in this room is just as important as what happens out on the field."

This perspective has Elara tilting her head thoughtfully in consideration. Beetee truly has a unique way of viewing the world. To think that her efforts here might be equally as effective as the efforts of the soldiers themselves gives her an earnest desire to prove herself. After all, most of her friends are training to be those soldiers, and if she can't join them directly, then she likes the idea of assisting them in whatever way she's able.

She smiles faintly at Beetee and nods, "Okay. So what's the problem with these arrows? There must be a chemical imbalance in your formula."

Beetee beams at her from his wheelchair and reaches for one of his journals. As he flips it open to show her said formula, Elara is braced with a sensation of usefulness that she hasn't felt in weeks now. Perhaps he's right – perhaps she can make a difference here after all. The thought is invigorating, and as she reaches for a pencil and studies the familiar blend of numbers and equations laid out on the page before her, she feels something that she hasn't felt in years, ever since she was a student throwing herself into learning the intricate mathematics of engineering.

She feels excitement.

* * *

Alas, if only the eagerness of Elara's new job could extend to being excited about the food in this place. At lunch, she heads down to the cafeteria to meet up with Cashmere and Johanna, who are waiting for her at their usual table in the corner. When she joins her friends with a tray of watery soup and a slab of plain bread, they're already halfway through their meals. Cashmere, despite being used to far better foods, hardly bats an eye at the assortment. She's been training hard these last few months since the Quarter Quell, and either she recognizes the fact that she needs the nutrients to fuel her training regime, or she's just grown accustomed to the lack of options. Conversely, Johanna is a little less enthusiastic, and Elara can't blame her for it.

"Watery stew again," the blunt Victor deadpans as Elara pulls up a chair. She drops her spoon into the bowl and mutters, "I'm dying for some steak and mashed potatoes."

Cashmere snorts, mouth full as she replies, "Not even Victors get special treatment around here. Eat up, Elara."

Elara hums dryly and takes a spoonful of the soup. She isn't entirely sure if it's supposed to be soup or stew or just some strange hybrid between the two, but she figures she should be grateful that it isn't the sludgy porridge that she'd been fed during her time in the Capitol.

"Where's Amelia? I thought she'd be hanging off of you," Elara says as she swallows the spoonful, shooting an amused glance at Cashmere. Thankfully, her younger sister has been given a job too, and it isn't to train as a soldier. Though Amelia hasn't stopped complaining about it for days now, Elara is glad that there's an age restriction here. At least District 13 recognizes when someone is too young to risk their life for their cause. These people are a radical group, but they aren't heartless.

Amelia has been assigned to work in the medical bay. She whines about how the nurses boss her around and how the quality of work is more complicated that she'd expected, but Elara suspects that her sister secretly enjoys it. Amelia operates well in a high stress environment. Not only that, but since starting her job several days ago, she's befriended none other than Primrose Everdeen, Katniss's younger sister. They're a few years apart and have very different personalities, but their situations are similar enough where they've become fast friends.

Cashmere chuckles, "I've been replaced." She shrugs and takes a bite of bread. "It's good, though. Your sister needs something to occupy herself with or she'll go crazy, and it's kept her out of my hair which is good."

Elara smiles. Though Cashmere doesn't mind having Amelia around, the Victor does have a pretty strict schedule. Her training takes up the majority of her day, and Amelia isn't technically supposed to be allowed into the training center. Keeping her occupied elsewhere is beneficial for everyone.

"What about you, Johanna? Did you finally get assigned somewhere?" Elara wonders, glancing over at her friend.

Last time they'd spoken, which had been yesterday evening, Johanna still hadn't received any assignments or jobs. The Victor hadn't much cared either way. Unsurprisingly, she isn't very impressed with District 13. She's glad she's here and not in the Capitol, but Johanna's way of rebelling against the system has always been singular and personal. She's more of a loner; someone who appreciates taking her own measured steps without joining any particular group.

Johanna grumbles, "They seem to think that I need more medical supervision before they assign me a unit."

Medical supervision. Well, the phrase isn't very stellar, but the Victor doesn't seem to care. Johanna just shrugs and takes another bite of her bread. Johanna hates doctors, but she doesn't seem very concerned about her current lot in life.

Cashmere nudges her and murmurs, "Well you _are_ kind of crazy, Mason."

The slight jab makes Johanna smirk and agree, "Too crazy for these rebels, apparently."

Elara laughs. She's always admired Johanna's resilience.  
"My brother spent the morning sparring with Finnick," Cashmere says, glancing over at Elara with an amused expression. "The testosterone in the room was suffocating."

Elara laughs again at the mental image this produces and muses, "The sounds like an interesting match. Who won?"

The question has Cashmere smirking widely. Her face twists into such mischief that it makes her hazel eyes glimmer with mirth. She slowly responds, "Finnick, of course." Then, after a brief pause spent taking a sip of water, Cashmere adds, "But he's so stubborn that he kept challenging Finnick to rematches, and whenever Finnick would try to get out of them, Gloss would question his masculinity and it would start all over again."

Elara rolls her eyes and mutters, "Why am I not surprised?"

She can so easily picture Gloss cajoling Finnick into fighting with him again in an effort to improve his strength and prove himself. Gloss is probably one of the most confrontational men Elara knows. If she doesn't know the rest of him so well, she'd say that this aspect of his character is the most encompassing.

Cashmere hums in agreement and slowly murmurs, "Gloss is a weakling these days. He has to get his strength back."

The words have Elara glancing cautiously up at her, only to see that Cashmere is eyeing her poignantly, as if she's trying to unravel her thoughts with her eyes alone. The look makes her shift a bit in her seat.

With a sigh, Cashmere leans forward and says, "He won't tell me anything, and I'm not the kind of person who needs to know everything that he's been through, Elara, but – I'm worried about him. Give me something, okay? I haven't asked you since the hospital, but…what happened to him in the Capitol?"

The question makes her freeze, fingers clenching down on her spoon so tightly that her knuckles begin to blanch white. Across the table, Johanna also pauses. She stares down into her bowl with hard eyes, no doubt recalling her own experiences just as vividly as Elara is. As for Cashmere, well, she isn't blind to either of her friends' reactions, but she's also pretty stubborn herself.

It's true: she hasn't pestered Elara for answers since the hospital, and even then she hadn't been overly demanding. She knows that this subject is one that she must tread very carefully around. She doesn't need to know every single detail, nor does she want to, but she would like to understand things better. The familiar dynamic that she's always shared with her brother has shifted in a way that she cannot quite explain. Even her connection with Elara feels somehow off. And, whenever Elara and Gloss interact, it's painfully apparent that there is something altered in the mannerisms between the two of them. Cashmere just wants to understand it.

Elara glances up at her friend with a tight expression. The gently prying question has her stiffening, even though she knows that Cashmere's intentions behind the inquiry are pure. Still, recalling those horrid memories are not easy to do, especially when she has finally begun to feel as though it is possible to overcome them after all.

At her continued silence, Cashmere sighs, "I'm sorry for bringing it up – "

"Clients," Elara suddenly blurts, cutting through Cashmere's retracting words with all the ferocity of a thunderstorm. It's strange, how one word changes so many things. How just a handful of letters have such a tremendous impact.

Cashmere immediately shuts up, forehead creasing. A look of guarded wariness captures her expression.

Elara rubs her forehead and whispers, "We were…sold…together…"

Cashmere recoils as if she's been slapped, staring at Elara with wide eyes. Her face immediately pales, eyes shuttering with hesitant emotions. Beside her, Johanna just blinks down into her soup and doesn't look very shocked. She merely takes a spoonful of soup, movements quite calm in comparison to Cashmere's.

Cashmere's spoon drops onto her tray with a clatter, and the fierce blond Victor who is always so strong leans forward and buries her face into her hands. She doesn't say anything. A heavy silence drops down upon them. Elara dares not break it. She casts a brief glance at Johanna, who purses her mouth at her with a look of sympathetic understanding blazing through her eyes.

After several heavy minutes, Cashmere sighs and lifts her head. She rubs her temples and mutters, "That explains a lot."

It explains her brother's sudden, inexplicable wariness whenever he is touched by another person during training. It explains the strange look on his face whenever he has a moment to himself, when he stares out into space and seems to be almost pulled down into some memory better left alone. It explains, especially, the odd cadence between him and Elara. The tentative dynamics between them. The sudden shift from unapologetic proximity to careful disconnection.

Cashmere looks over at Elara, and whispers, "Thanks for telling me."

And Elara just clears her throat and goes back to eating, unsure of what she could say in reply to those words. Nightmares dance behind her eyes, and releasing herself from their power is not an easy thing to do. She's been trying relentlessly for weeks now, with little success.

She wonders if she will ever succeed, or if this path that she finds herself on will ever haunt her until her final breath.

* * *

Later that night, Gloss returns to their shared compartment looking exhausted. He sends Elara a brief smile as he closes the door and immediately starts pulling his jumpsuit off. Elara is already in bed, propped up against the pillows as she reads one of Beetee's journals. She'd asked if she could borrow a few of them in order to become better adjusted to her new job, and he had gladly given her a few of them to look through. Though she has a scientific mind bred from her initial years of study, she is less familiar with Beetee's methods. Reacclimating herself to such work is the first step in making herself useful.

When Gloss sees the leather-bound journal in her lap, he wonders, "What's that?"

Elara glances up at him as he pulls a pair of sleep pants on and runs his hands through his hair. The honey brown strands have grown longer in the last few weeks, but he's avoided getting a haircut because apparently he dislikes the standard cut that most men in District 13 sport. She's teased him a few times about being too picky about his appearance, but as always, Gloss is unapologetic about his stance.

As he steps towards her, she lifts the journal up and explains, "Beetee's notes. The man's a bonified genius. In only two weeks, he managed to invent a generator that powers the entire district ten times more efficiently than their last system using steam turbines and rotary techniques. It's amazing."

Gloss gives her a blank stare that she doesn't notice, because she's too busy flipping through the pages to show him Beetee's blueprints and gushing, "One of his side projects is to reroute the entire electrical database using kinetic energy from above ground. His ideas for the wind turbine are amazing. Here, see?"

She turns the journal towards him and he looks down at the complicated drawings strewn out on several areas of the page. Elara rambles on for another few moments until she realizes that Gloss looks like he's got no idea what she's talking about. She pauses to glance up at him, only to find that he's looking at her with strangely warm eyes, as if he's far more interested in listening to her talk over actually understanding what she's saying.

She laughs at him and shrugs, "Sorry. I'll save my theories for Beetee. I'm probably boring you."

The edge of Gloss's mouth tilts up. He hums, "I'm glad you're enjoying working with him." Then he pauses, smirks, and crawls towards her with a murmured, "Even though you completely lost me just now." He presses his mouth against hers and pushes her gently back into the pillows with a chuckle.

Elara hums against him, reaching up to clasp her hands around his neck as his weight eases over her. She kisses him back slowly, slipping one hand to tunnel through his hair. The soft strands are freshly washed and smells like the standard shampoo that is supplied to all citizens of District 13. He sinks into her with a sigh. For a moment, as his hand gently curls around her waist and thumbs over her abdomen, Elara thinks that perhaps this kiss will be different from the last – perhaps they will finally break through the wall that has held them back from being too expressive in their emotions and desires, but…

After a moment, Gloss sighs again and pulls back, hovering over her with a soft look in his eye. It is a look that could be described as a gentle apology, in its own way. Elara just reaches up to press her hand against his cheek and lets him get away from her. She won't force this. She wants him to come to her of his own free will, or not at all.

Gloss hovers there for another moment before slowly pushing back and settling against the pillows beside her. He swings an arm onto the back of the headboard and pushes his fingers into his hair once more. It's strange, the undertone of awkwardness that creases through the spaces between them. Even their first time hadn't been this awkward, but then again, the first night they'd spent together had been innocent in ways that no longer exist. Though they had both been oppressed by the system even then, they had been different people. So much as changed now. Not just between them, but in every area of their lives.

"…How was your day?" Elara asks as she draws Beetee's journal back into her lap. She props her knees up and flips the pages back to where she had left off prior to Gloss's entrance, but it's difficult to focus on the words. She is hyperaware of him by her side, and also of her own desire for him.

She isn't sure how she feels about it, really. A part of her wonders if she should feel guilty for wanting him as badly as she does when he's clearly not ready to delve down that particular path. A part of her wonders if it's even normal to want him, considering the things that she'd experienced back in that penthouse suite. And yet a greater part of her thinks that it is perfectly normal. Of course she wants Gloss. She always wants him and she thinks she always will. Just because things are different between them now doesn't mean she's stopped wanting him. In fact, as she sits there and feels the warmth of his body press against her side, she thinks she wants him more than she's ever wanted him in her life.

Some part of her is convinced that being intimate with him would erase everything that has come between them. It would set them back to the beginning; essentially restart it all. Maybe she's being overly optimistic, but she feels as if having him inside her would heal the parts of their relationship that seem so utterly damaged.

Not that it matters. She has no desire to push him. If he isn't comfortable with initiating such an act, then it would only do further harm to the tentative connection that they currently share.

So instead of pressing him, Elara just sits there and flips through the journal as Gloss shifts next to her and murmurs, "Fine. I beat Finnick at one of our spars, but I'm pretty sure he went easy on me."

At his grumbling words, Elara quips an amused smile. He sounds very petulant about it, as if he's personally offended that Finnick would ever go easy on him at all, especially to the point of letting him win. Gloss is too competitive for his own good, sometimes.

"Well you haven't trained in a long time now," she reasons, keeping her words vague on purpose. No sense in getting too detailed regarding why he hasn't been able to train. He couldn't very well exercise in his cell.

Gloss just hums and glances down at the complicated flourish of Beetee's words. The technical descriptions make his head spin, and he wonders how Elara is able to understand all of this. He's just a little bit impressed with her aptitude for all this scientific stuff. He's never really had a chance to see it in action before now, and this new side of her fascinates him.

"In a few weeks I'll be pummeling him into the ground during every match, just wait," he tells her, and chuckles at the look she sends him. Then, leaning in to kiss her temple, he murmurs, "I went to the hospital today."

Elara looks over at him in surprise and narrows her eyes in concern. "Why?" she demands. "Did you hurt yourself?"

Gloss scoffs at her and pulls a strand of her hair between his fingers, playing with the silken copper as he mutters, "I went a little hard on myself. My back was hurting, so Cashmere made me leave." He mutters something else about overbearing sisters, but Elara is far too focused on his words to notice.

She immediately sits up and turns to him, worry creasing through her expression. The sight of it has Gloss rolling his eyes and saying, "It's fine, Elara."

But it doesn't stop her from demanding, "Let me see."

He grumbles a bit but ultimately knows by now when he should argue with her and when he should shut his mouth and do as she says, because after a moment Gloss just sighs and sits up. He turns to face the wall, baring his back to her, and glowers at the sides of the metal compartment.

Honestly, some wallpaper would do wonders in here. When he makes mention of it though – mainly to break the silence despite actually being completely serious – Elara doesn't respond.

She's too busy gazing at him back. It isn't as if she hasn't seen the scars before. She's gotten fairly used to this alteration in his physical form over the last few weeks. They've been sharing the same quarters for half that time, and so it would have been impossible not to notice his torn up back. The doctors had made sure that he was fully healed before allowing him to leave the hospital. They'd done numerous skin grafts to cover the lashes, but the raised marks will be a part of him for the rest of his life. Elara's seen them before, but Gloss hasn't yet allowed her to truly study them. Perhaps he's self-conscious of them, or just doesn't want to worry her. She doesn't know. What she does know is that this is the first time that she's been able to get such a close look.

She gently lays a hand flat over the middle of his back, and Gloss tenses. The sight of his stiff shoulders has her immediately retracting her touch and cautiously wondering, "Does it hurt?"

Gloss is quiet for a moment, until he clears his throat and murmurs, "No. It doesn't hurt anymore."

She breathes out and tentatively brushes her fingers over the back of his neck as she whispers, "Gloss…can I touch you?"

He swallows thickly, hands fisting in his lap, and hoarsely responds, "…Yes."

There is something very reverent about the way Elara slowly lays her hands onto his shoulders and then pulls her touch over the raised scars that litter his back. Her touch is so light that he barely feels it. It's like water sluicing over skin, soft and soothing. It makes him close his eyes and inhale deeply. He abruptly feels closer to her than he's felt in a long time, now, and for once he isn't afraid of the closeness. In fact he revels in it.

It isn't as if he doesn't want her, but every time he begins to lose himself in her, the vulnerable part of him remembers. He remembers Magnus watching them make love from the other side of the room; remembers ducking his head to block out the sight of him touching himself as he looked upon them; remembers with vivid clarity the sound of his groan when he had pulled himself to a finish, as if the sight of the two Victors in bed together was something out of the dirtiest fantasy he's ever had.

He remembers watching the other clients claim Elara in ways that they have no right doing – roughly, with scratching hands and angry passion. He remembers the sight of her face in these moments when she could do nothing but succumb to the whims of these people, because free will did not exist in the planes of that room. The memories curdle through him like boiling water, and even his best attempts at pushing them away fail spectacularly again and again. He cannot help but return to those memories. When he begins to lose himself to her, they spiral back into him like ghosts that he cannot grasp, and therefore cannot send back to the darkness from whence they came.

The circle around him like birds of prey. They are hawks, and he is trapped in an open field beneath them.

And – worse still than struggling with these demons is that he can see the look in Elara's eyes every time he pulls away. He isn't blind to the disappointment there. She wants to draw him back in, but she refrains from it. He knows that she doesn't want to push him but this tentative back and forth makes him feel even worse than ever, as if he is a piece of glass seconds from shattering and she knows it.

But this…it is different. There are no expectations in this. There is only Elara's hands against him, shifting gingerly over every rise of his flesh. There are only her lips as they softly kiss over his shoulders and down his spine. And despite the demons that whisper into his ear, he feels a familiar edge of desire filter through him like sun gleaming through a canopy of leaves. It is warm and efflorescent, and the light is like a slow crescent that falls upon the earth in undiluted rays. It fills him with a peaceful lust – the crease of a desire; the smolder of a yearning – until he is leaning back into her and whispering her name in a quiet, reverent voice.

And Elara, well. She hears him.

Slowly, she wraps her arms around him and nestles her body against his back. Her touch is simple. It does not try to be something that it isn't. Love is a patient creature, and it will wait until the very end of time if it needs to. But Gloss suddenly does not want to wait that long.

He reaches up to take her hands, tangling his fingers with his as they lay atop his chest. Then, turning his chin to look at her, he catches her eye and nudges her into a kiss. It is perhaps the softest kiss they have ever shared. A bare thing, a shaky thing. It is something that verges on the indiscernible; hardly felt at all, and yet felt so much that it is like a tidal wave crashing into them with such potency that they cannot breathe in the wake it leaves behind.

She sinks deeper against him, and he takes her weight. The indiscernible quickly shifts into something far more potent.

Her fingers skim down his chest, alighting over the muscles of his abdomen and delving lower. They drift against the hem of his sleep pants, dipping against the flannel fabric just so. And, even though his dark memories stir in the face of her touch, the blunt edge of desire is too strong to deny completely.

It is because the atmosphere is a compelling mixture of light and dark; a crescendo of music that sifts through the air like a hard wave before trickling into something almost too delicate to truly grasp. It is soft yearning coupled with intense need. A complication.

A fortitude.

Her hands sink into the fabric and curl around him, and Gloss leans back against her with a throaty hum. When she touches him like this, he could almost imagine that they are back in his apartment – or in hers, fighting against the press of the Capitol as it hangs in the suspending backdrop beyond the window, holding back the night as it falls hard around them and steals from them the coveted swirl of seconds.

Before those nights, he had not known how precious time really is. How easily it slips through your fingers when you aren't paying attention. One moment you are as you have always been, and then time shifts yet again and you are intrinsically changed.

"Should I stop?" she breathes against his mouth. Her words fold into the spaces between them and fade into his skin.

He shudders and doesn't respond. Instead he just kisses her deeper, and tries to stop the passage of seconds; tries to hold back the night. But he cannot. He closes his eyes, and that is all it takes for the demons to swoop down and burst into his mind.

He doesn't even realize what he's doing until he's in the process of wrangling her hand away from him and sitting up, and then in the heavy silence that follows he feels a sense of overpowering shame for allowing his wariness to get between them yet again.

Elara looks at him, and after a long moment, lays her hand against the scarred flesh of his back. Her voice is gentle – too gentle – when she whispers, "I love you."

The words make his shoulders shake. She doesn't say anything else. Doesn't complain or get angry with him. Instead she just presses a lingering kiss to his scarred back and reaches over to turn the light off. And then, to spare him from having to show his emotions as clearly as he's feeling them, she tugs his arm until he's following her beneath the blankets and rubbing at his eyes to dry his tears in the darkness.

It isn't until later, when they have pulled the blankets up and have curled closer beneath them that he whispers, "I'm sorry, Elara."

But she just sleepily squeezes his hand and doesn't respond. She doesn't really need to.

Love is patient.

It perseveres.


	60. A softer twist of fate a beggar's plea,

**Chapter Sixty | A softer twist of fate; a beggar's plea,**

"_What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?_

_Young son, it argues a distempered head_

_So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed."_

_2.3, 33-35 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Elara has always known that Gloss is an attractive man. Even before he had crashed into her path, he is someone that people can't help but notice. He has a way about him that isn't simply handsome at surface-level. He is incredibly good looking, but his charm goes far deeper than the physical. At least, in Elara's humble opinion._

_Besides the physical attributes that make him irresistible, there is a magnanimity that perforates his character. It is a subtle sort of strength that compels people to notice him. He is like the first bolt of lightning in a storm that rolls unexpectedly into existence, and every clap of thunder that follows._

_He just has this aura about him that Elara can't hope to resist. Every wayward beat of his heart is an enchantment that she falls right into. She is as lost to him as a sailor is lost on a starless night, especially right now._

_The morning sun glimmers over them from the opposite window, which is cracked to allow the warm summer breeze to flood into the room. Outside, far below, the city streets of the Capitol are rife with sound. There is a texture to the air that is strangely indiscernible, perhaps because they are in the middle of the same hellish nightmare that they've been trapped in for years now, but at the same time they are somehow removed from it all in this room that has seen so much transpire between them._

_Whatever it is that lingers in the spaces between his body and hers, it is measured in moments. Their connection is far too unstable to be thought of in any other way. It is intangible until it is not; abstract in such a way that she cannot consider measuring it with more precision, for it possesses none. But this moment is harrowingly beautiful. It is a cadence of sleep and the softness of affection. It is the swift dawn and the hard fall of night all in one._

_Gloss is sprawled out over the bed, utterly naked and – to Elara's amusement and pleasure – is lying spread eagle with the sheets kicked down. Curled up beside his still sleeping figure, she is rather enjoying the sight he makes. Even in sleep, he is completely comfortable with nudity._

_The last time he'd shaved was yesterday morning, and the scruff on his jaw is already growing in again. It catches the light just so and glimmers with brownish blonde highlights. She can't help but drag her fingers lightly over his jaw, silently delighting in the rough feel of it. She loves it when he looks scruffy like this. It's arousing in a way she can't define, but suspects that it has something to do with how thoroughly masculine it makes him look. As if he needs any help with that._

_He likes to sleep in like this. She's often awake before he is, and this particular morning isn't very different from most of the ones that they are able to spend together. The exception is, perhaps, his current position._

_She snickers quietly and pushes herself up onto her elbow to get a better view. She knows his body like she knows her own, and yet she hasn't gotten used to it in the least. She doesn't think that intimacy is something you can get used to. It isn't a creature that can be tamed or put into a cage. It is a constant state of evolution, ever changing, always in motion. With Gloss, it isn't something she wants to grow accustomed to anyhow. She craves the tantalizing, inconsistent nature of their intimacy. The way he is sometimes slow and soft and sincere, while other times he is all hard passion and possessive greed. She isn't sure which she likes more._

_In his sleep, Gloss mumbles something incoherent and turns his head towards the window. She smiles down at him and traces her fingers very lightly over his nose, admiring his strong jaw and high cheekbones. His eyes are relaxed, lips parted. In the throes of sleep, his expression is carefree, as if he has no worries at all._

_Her hand lightly traces down his neck and chest, idling for a moment to splay out over the light dusting of hair that grows over it. If his stylists saw the current state of him, they'd go into a panic, rushing around to wax him down until he is hairless and pristine. She likes him like this though. It's natural, as he is meant to be. She thinks the soft hairs that brush against her palm are just another irresistible facet of him._

_Edging closer, Elara glances up at his face. He is still sleeping and utterly unaware of her perusal of him, but she imagines that if he were awake, he wouldn't mind it very much. He likes to flaunt himself sometimes, half playful, half serious. He knows he's attractive and enjoys when she looks at his body. Her admiration of him is something that he finds both amusing and enchanting all in one._

_Pressing back a smile, she drags her fingers down his abdomen, circling his naval and delving over his hip. She focuses, for a brief moment, on splaying her hand over his muscular thigh. Her nails dig into his skin lightly, curious to see if the movement wakes him up. It doesn't. Gloss is a heavy sleeper, especially when they spend their nights locked in passion. It will take more than just a few touches to wake him._

_The thought has her smirking wickedly as her eyes trail over his bare form. His length is soft and placid, for now. She wonders if, by changing that, she will successfully draw him from his sleep. It is a challenge that she is more than willing to test._

_Her hand traces his inner thigh, rubbing over his skin before inching towards his manhood. He is warm and velvety in her palm, and for a moment she just holds him, enjoying the feel of him against her._

_Her fingers begin to flutter over him with barely enough pressure to constitute as a real touch. Still, as she traces the length of him from base to tip, she feels him stir against her just so, reacting to her attention. She is curious how much teasing his unconscious self will take. His conscious one isn't very patient, after all._

_Her thumb brushes over his tip, circling the sensitive skin as she fits her body against his and leans down to press her mouth against his chest. He makes a sound in the back of his throat – a sleepy grunt that scrapes the low octaves of his voice – but when she looks up at him, he is still asleep. She hums to herself and leans up to kiss his mouth, lips brushing over his before slowly sinking down his body. She strokes him gently, fingers loose but firm as they grasp his length. Her hair falls against his hips as she lays soft kisses over his skin. When she presses one over his tip, he subconsciously makes that noise again and she thinks it's irresistible._

_She waits until he's hard against her, patiently drawing forth his latent passion until his length is swollen with desire and stands against her hand without her help. She almost can't believe that he is still sleeping, but there is no mistaking the even rise and fall of his chest. When she pulls his erection into her mouth, though, that all changes._

_It takes only a few firm strokes to truly wake him. She sucks at him with an insistent gentleness, laying her tongue flat against the underside of him as she drags her lips up his member. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, taking note of the furrow in his brow and the way he turns his head again, as if his sleep has been interrupted. She smiles wickedly and sucks at his tip, and the intense pleasure that immediately folds around his body is enough to make his eyes open as the final dregs of sleep is erased._

_Suddenly his hand is shooting down to clench into her hair, and Gloss is hissing, "Fuck, Elara."_

_She shivers at the tone of his voice, all ragged and creased with sleep, and glances up at him. Their eyes meet, clashing like thunder. He stares down at her, looking tired and surprised and incredibly turned on. He can't hope to hide his arousal. It catapults over the planes of his face with singular effect. When she purrs at the sight he makes and sucks at him again, he throws his head back with an indulgent groan and exhales, "I wasn't expecting this kind of wake-up call."_

_She chuckles and he groans again when the vibrations sweep over his length. Her mouth is hot around him, and every downward push of her lips stokes a fire in his body that has only one cure._

_Now that he is awake, she isn't very interested in slow gentle passion. Her every movement is wild, raw in a way that is almost unbearable for him. He is completely caught off guard with his defenses down, and if he's being honest with himself, he loves it. There is something about Elara Winston when she is in a domineering mood, and it isn't something that he has very much resistance to._

"_Mm…" she hums, and he swallows tightly at both the sound and the feel of it against him. She catches his sleepy gaze with a sinful smile that should frankly be outlawed, and releases her mouth from his erection to murmur, "You looked like you needed it."_

_Gloss's laughs breathlessly and reaches down to sweep his fingers more gently into her hair, drawing the silken strands off to the side so that he can watch her go down on him. The sight of his length disappearing between her lips is more than just arousing. Right now, with his self-control in shambles, it's staggering._

_Elara releases him from her mouth to instead pump him a few times in her hand. Her movements are firm and long, and Gloss's breath hitches as she leans down to bite at his hip. Her tongue darts out, hot and wet, to lick over his pelvis and down his inner thigh. He can't possible stop the desperate groan from leaving his lips as she starts kissing up his length, tonguing and licking her way over him as her fingers massage his tip._

"_Elara," he shivers, and fists one hand into the sheets at his side, knuckles straining as the molten fir of his desire melt through him. It's all he can do to regain some semblance of control. If she keeps this up, he won't have any at all._

_She takes him into her mouth again and hums lowly as she hilts him, completely enveloping him. The feeling is so incredible erotic that he can only lift his head to watch her, eyes muddled and desperate with the hazy potency of desire. His legs open wider to accommodate her, hips shifting just so in tiny spluttering thrusts as he groans and clenches the sheets harder. She splays a hand over his naval and begins to pump him faster. It is almost too much for him to bear. Already, he can feel the thunder of his orgasm clench through him._

_What really sends him over the edge, though, is how she looks up at him as she sucks him. Her eyes are dark and impassioned, full of desire and longing and love. She looks like she's never seen him so perfect, and that the mere sight he makes is more arousing to her than any physical touch could ever be. It is this look that ruins him. This expression that throws him from the teetering edge of pleasure and into the heady center of it._

_He grits his teeth, nostrils flaring as he stares at her. He looks almost angry, but she knows that it isn't anger at all that captures him so intently. His eyes are too desperate, too emblazoned with lust. His body, when it arches into the mattress, is too possessed by desire._

"_Fuck – " his seethes, gripping her hair tightly. He nearly crushes her into him as he comes, barely managing to remember himself. Elara though, just sinks into him with a deep breath through her nose and swallows down around him. The clench of muscle makes him pant, fingers flexing against her head as he comes hard. It is an undoing that leaves him breathless and directionless but for her. Even after he's spent, he can hardly remember how to breathe._

_He only remembers again when he feels Elara crawl up his body. His eyes flutter open just in time to see her fit herself over him, laying her chest against his as if she has every right to claim him in such a way. Gloss figures that if anyone does, then it's her, and he lifts his arms to drag her closer._

"_You're irresistible," she whispers to him, kissing over his scruffy jaw._

_He groans lightly and nuzzles her cheek with his nose, squeezing her against him and loving every press of her warm body over his._

"_And you're too good to be true, Winston," he mutters tiredly, and thinks that he's never spoken words that ring with such sincerity in all his life._

* * *

The next week passes quickly. After breakfast, Elara often sees Amelia off to the medical bay, walking with her a part of the way before their paths split. She usually meets Beetee in the engineering unit and they begin their work until lunch, during which Elara has taken to occasionally eating with him in the workroom. She works until dinner before heading off to her compartment to freshen up before meeting everyone else in the cafeteria. Their dinners have become a familiar routine these days, and it's something that she looks forward to because it's the only time of the day when they're all able to be together as a group.

Amelia has stopped pretending to dislike her assignment in the medical bay and often talks their ears off about it. Johanna's finally been assigned a job too, but unlike Amelia, she does not gush about it. Her grumbling complaints are entertaining in their own way, and Finnick loves to tease her about the fact that her new purpose in life (as he puts it) is to water plants. Apparently, the doctors seemed to think that assigning her to the gardening and crop harvesting unit would be a good treatment whilst giving her a job at the same time, and President Coin had jumped on it.

Other than during dinner, Elara and Gloss spend their evenings in much the same way that they've been spending them for the last few weeks. Since that night when she had viewed his scars, though, something between them seems to have slid back into place – almost. Instead of pushing him further away, like she feared, he has come closer to her. They haven't yet managed to cross the line that still hangs between them, but they've gotten one step closer in breaking it down.

In any case, it is the weekend, and even District 13 gives its citizens a few days off every now and again. Elara is happy for a break, but Gloss…well. He's a Career through and through.

"He's _training?"_ Amelia blurts when she inquires into his location. With a huff, Amelia stabs a forkful of scrambled eggs and mutters, "He finally has a day off and he decides to waste it."

Breakfast is half over now, and Gloss still hasn't come. Not that Elara is surprised. He'd told her that morning that he's getting really close to beating Finnick in their spars, and the excited gleam in his eyes when he had explained it made her smile. She doubts she'll see him for at least a few hours. Gloss doesn't believe in taking a day off when it comes to his fitness.

Amelia grumbles a bit more as she finishes off her eggs, and then glances coyly up at Elara and murmurs, "You know, he wears this really tight muscle shirt when he trains."

The sudden topic change has Elara coughing into her glass. When she gathers herself, she shoots her sister a look, and Amelia snickers.

"We should go watch him for a while since there's nothing else to do today," Amelia shrugs, doing a rather poor job at appearing innocent. Her eyes flash with mischief no matter how innocent she tries to mak them, and it's painfully clear that she's just looking to get more ammunition over Elara. Using Gloss to do it shouldn't be overly surprising. This is Amelia, after all.

Elara rolls her eyes. "You think I've never seen Gloss in a muscle shirt?" She nearly adds 'or less?', but decides that she doesn't really want to get into that particular topic with her younger sister, especially over breakfast.

Amelia just shrugs and leans forward, eyes gleaming when she sings, "It's a _tight_ muscle shirt."

Elara laughs at her and shakes her head. And yet – after breakfast is finished and the sisters get up – Amelia starts dragging her there anyway, even despite Elara's halfhearted attempts at refusing her. When they get there, they step into the large training facilities, only to find that Gloss is the only person in here today with the exception of a few other people who are scattered here and there. According to Amelia, the room is usually packed.

When Gloss sees them, he's in the middle of lifting several heavy looking weights over to the right side of the center, where barbells and weightlifting equipment is set up. He immediately looks down at Amelia with a raised eyebrow. It's pretty obvious that she's the one who had dragged Elara here, not the other way around. Even he's figured it out when he drawls, "What, you were so bored that you decided to watch your sister ogle me?"

Elara immediately chokes a bit. Amelia just grins and snickers. It seems that Gloss has hit the nail right on the head, so to speak. He's gotten pretty good at reading Amelia by now. She's an open book most of the time – at least where it concerns her sister.

Snickering most intensely now, Amelia crows, "She's just so predictable!"

Elara sighs, rolling her eyes and pushing her sister a bit in retribution, much to Gloss's amusement. He slowly drops the weight to the floor and dusts his hands off as he strides towards them, lips wound up into a smirk that doesn't bode well. Elara knows that expression. It's a look that means he's about to do something that he probably shouldn't do.

But – when he reaches her side and sweeps down to pull her into an unapologetic kiss, ignoring Amelia completely in favor of shifting his mouth into Elara's, well…

She isn't quite expecting _that_. Neither, it seems, is Amelia, who immediately makes a disgusted face and starts to pretend that she's about to throw up.

Elara laughs against his mouth and draws away to eye her sister with an amused look. Then, glancing down at Gloss's tight muscle shirt, Elara murmurs, "She did mention that you'd be wearing this, which was supposed to be incentive for me to _ogle_ you."

Gloss gives her a smug smirk, reaching down to fix said shirt and shrugging, "It is good incentive."

Elara bites back a smile and he chuckles again, then crosses his arms and turns to Amelia with a raised eyebrow. "I'm busy, you know? I've almost broken through my plateau. Next time I spar with Finnick, I'm going to crush him."

He says it with such glee that both Amelia and Elara roll their eyes at him. Gloss hardly seems to notice – or care. His goal to beat Finnick has been the primary source of motivation for him these past few weeks. Since arriving in District 13 in his weakened state, his usually stellar fitness had taken a dive after the Capitol, and he's been obsessed with getting back into shape. It isn't just because he wants to one-up Finnick, though. He's training to be a soldier, and the motivation that is bred from the thought of taking the Capitol down is intense.

If he can do something to help this rebellion, then the life he has always wanted to have will be that much easier to grasp. It inspires him, those thoughts. He's never been inclined towards daydreams, but he can't deny that this particular one is stimulating. The thought of taking Elara back to District 1 and living with her – maybe even going the traditional route and making a real life with her – it's something that he's kept to himself, mostly, but it drives him even more potently than his desire to pummel Finnick into the ground like he used to be able to do.

Slinging an arm around Elara's waist, he smirks, "Don't you two have something you need to be doing today? I've got goals to reach."

Elara gives him an exasperated look but doesn't argue. She merely sighs, "I was going to head over to the engineering unit to do more work. There's not much to do around here on days off."

It's true enough. While it's nice to be able to have some time to themselves, there aren't very many activities to partake in. From what she's gathered so far, it seems that most citizens spend time in the cafeteria chatting, or in other areas just hanging out. As always, the options are rather slim.

Amelia butts in to say, "Everyone's agreed to eat lunch together though. If you don't come, I'll send Cashmere to bite your head off."

The threat doesn't seem to work on Gloss, who just snorts and mutters, "As if she could." He makes no mention of how close Amelia is with Cashmere these days. It isn't particularly surprising, and he's used to it by now.

Elara laughs and squeezes his arm before drawing away. "Come on, Amelia. I'll introduce you to Beetee."

Amelia grumbles a bit, but ultimately doesn't argue. They say their goodbyes to Gloss and stride out of the training center. Amelia complains the entire way, bemoaning the fact that she didn't get a good chance to tease Elara.

The day passes in much the same way. It's startlingly normal. By the time Elara crawls into bed that night, she's in such a good mood that she falls asleep almost instantly, surrounded by the warmth of Gloss's arms as he draws her into his chest.

* * *

Several days later, Gloss surprises Elara by swinging by the engineering unit during his break. It's midafternoon, about the time that Elara stops for lunch, but her workload had made her forget about it entirely. Beetee and her are on the verge of discovery, so to speak. President Coin wants them to create a new server for the troops – an upgraded holo system, essentially. It's more Beetee's line of expertise, but Elara has learned quite a lot from him during the past few days and she's eager to learn more. When Gloss steps into the large room, the two of them are totally engrossed. Elara is leaning over Beetee as he walks her through the prototype system, and she brainstorms ways of improving it as she watches him file through the networks and databases.

It's a far cry different from what she studied back in District 5, which is why Beetee is taking the lead with the project. She's content to sit back and focus the majority of her attention on reworking the blueprints for Katniss's explosive arrows, which still need some tweaking before they're combat-ready. Beetee seems to appreciate her feedback though, despite her not having a full grasp of his work where it concerns these holographs.

"Maybe you should consider editing the binary code," Elara says, not noticing Gloss's approach. She glances at the script that's running on the left-hand side of the screen and suggests, "Have you tried inputting a different logarithm?"

Beetee hums thoughtfully and shrugs, "It might fix the glitching, but then again the source of that could be rooted somewhere else on the server. I'd rather go through everything else first before I touch the code."

Elara nods agreeably and pats his shoulder, "I'm sure you'll figure it out in no time."

Beetee sends her a small smile. He cracks his fingers and wonders, "How are the arrows coming along?"

She draws back and murmurs, "Well, the explosives are a bit – "

"Explosives?" Gloss suddenly drawls from the doorway, raising his eyebrows and smirking when both Elara and Beetee jump in surprise. It's fairly clear that they hadn't heard him enter and probably didn't know he's been standing there for much of their conversation. A conversation which, admittedly, goes a bit over his head. But explosives – he understands that much, at least. That the Girl on Fire gets explosive arrows and he doesn't is definitely something he's going to question Elara on.

Elara curses under her breath as she jumps around to face him, surprise momentarily taking her off guard. Gloss smirk only widens at the sight.

"For such a large man, you really know how to sneak up on people," Beetee mutters as he turns back to his computer, and Elara twists her mouth in amusement.

Gloss waves the words away and demands, "You're making explosive arrows for Katniss? What's next, using your bomb-making abilities to outfit the troops with grenades?"

The question is delivered with a wave of mirth, but he's actually being fairly serious in asking it. That is the purpose of the science department, after all. District 13 utilizes all its resources, especially the minds of its citizens. Or, in this case, its refugees. And Elara's penchant of making bombs hasn't been forgotten. He can still vividly recall the way she had grudgingly told him that she created a bomb for her final training session just before the Quarter Quell. It had certainly gotten her a higher training score.

Elara makes a face at him and steps over to the table that is currently housing the arrow prototypes and blueprints. "She's the Mockingjay. Coin wanted her to be camera ready, and explosive arrows are pretty eye catching."

Gloss grumbles at this and strides forward, peering around the room as he wonders, "What are you making me, then?" When she just raises an eyebrow at him, Gloss crosses his arms and complains, "Oh come on. You're making Katniss explosive arrows but you won't make me something cool?"

There's something almost childish about his tone that has Elara smirking wryly at him. She leans against the table and humors him. "What do you have in mind?"

Gloss walks to the other side of the table and leans against it too, eyes flashing as he muses, "I don't know…a collapsible spear? A sword that catches fire? Use your imagination, Winston."

Elara laughs at him and incredulously repeats, "A sword that catches fire?"

Gloss glowers at her and mutters, "It would be cool."

She laughs again and shakes her head at him, eyes warm as she studies the amusement that flashes through his gaze.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" she asks after a moment, resting her chin on her palm and blinking over the table at him. This time of day, he should be training. He's hardly left the training facility since he was assigned there several weeks ago. He's been so obsessed with regaining his strength that the only time she ever sees him during the day is for meals, and then usually not again until the evening. She doesn't really mind not being around him all day. It's nice to have some space from each other, especially when there is so much that is occupying them both in their spare time.

Gloss shrugs and studies her carefully for a moment before slowly responding, "I thought I might convince you to come to the training center for an hour. I could teach you how to throw those knives better. Just in case."

Just in case. They are a harrowing set of words – seemingly innocent, but so very complicated beneath the surface of them.

Just in case something goes wrong. Just in case she finds herself in a situation that requires her to protect herself. Just in case he is no longer there to keep her safe. She doesn't want to think about him not being in her life, for whatever reason, so Elara just brushes the thoughts away and grumbles, "You've already done all that before the Quell."

She hadn't improved at all in that week of training. Gloss had gone out of his way to make sure that she could at least throw a knife properly, but as for hitting the actual targets in the intended places…well, Elara isn't really cut out for that sort of thing. She prefers intellectual pursuits, and is content to leave the physical things to him.

But Gloss just gives her a look and says in a more solemn tone, "What if something happens? We're going into war, Elara. It isn't like the arena. I'd feel better if you could at least protect yourself." She pauses, clearly unwilling to go down this particular route again, and he hurries to suggest, "How about a few self-defense moves? You're already pretty good at that. I'll teach you a few more and we'll call it even."

The way she glowers at him unhappily makes him chuckle. "Come on, Elara. Just for an hour."

She sighs, then glances over at Beetee, who has turned to watch them out of the corner of his eye as he looks through one of his journals. At her look, he lifts his head and shrugs, "You didn't take your lunch break anyway. I can hold down the fort for an hour."

He's a little too quick to agree with Gloss, and Elara groans, "Fine. An hour. That's it."

The grin Gloss sends her then is nearly enough to make it all worth it. Nearly.

Elara just isn't cut out for this sort of thing, but she does have to admit that self-defense comes a little more naturally to her than working with actual weapons. Gloss has taught her a few moves over the years in case she has a problem with a client and needs to immobilize him, but she only knows a few maneuvers. When she ends up landing face first into the mats, thrown there by an effortless twist of Gloss's arm, she realizes that there's still a lot she doesn't know.

Furthermore, an hour is a long time when one is continuously being cajoled by Finnick Odair, who has stopped his own training to watch.

"Take him down, Winston!" he shouts with a laugh, arms crossed as he leans against the wall and watches as Gloss shows her how to grab his wrist in a move that will send him flying onto his back. She hasn't actually succeeded in such a thing yet, and considering out much bigger he is compared to her, she doubts she ever will.

Gloss sends Finnick an exasperated look and turns to Elara to say, "I told you, it isn't about the size of your opponent – it's about taking them off guard. Your movements have to be quick and sure."

Elara sighs, but doesn't complain when he crowds in behind her and pushes his arms gently around her neck. "Okay," he murmurs, voice captured against her temple. His warmth overpowers her. Even as he starts to explain how to break the hold he's got on her, she has little desire to actually do it. "You're essentially trapped unless you kick me."

She looks over at him and grumbles, "I don't want to kick you."

He rolls his eyes at her. "Pretend I'm Finnick and kick me."

Finnick, who hears this, laughs, "Hey, that was a low! Elara loves me."

They both ignore Finnick, much to his own amusement, and Elara sighs. Gloss does too. In an impatient voice, he says, "Hurry up Winst – " and is promptly cut off when Elara digs her heel hard into his shin and manages to twist herself free. He clearly hadn't been expecting her to do it so suddenly, because he ends up stumbling back a little bit.

"That was…good," he tells her, and she raises a wry eyebrow at his tone. He chuckles a bit at the sight and says, "Like I said, it's all about taking your opponent off guard."

Elara gives him a wry look and he chuckles.

"Finnick, care to demonstrate the next hold?" Gloss asks as he straightens out. He glances over at the District 4 Victor and says, "Might as well make yourself useful."

His tone makes Finnick smirk. He catches Elara's gaze with a mirthful expression that immediately makes her wry look turn somewhat flat, and he smirks all the wider for it.

"Anything for Elara," Finnick graciously says with a dramatic sweep of his hand. He pushes off the wall and joins the pair on the mats, winking at Elara as he waits for instructions. Gloss steps back and crosses his arms, trying not to smile at the unexcited gleam of Elara's eyes.

His primary reason for bringing her down here has indeed been to give her a little more training in defending herself. He's always had a fatalistic mindset. Either things will go perfectly as planned, or they will crash and burn. He isn't sure if they can win this war against the Capitol. He wants to make sure that he's done everything he could with the time given to them to ensure that Elara will be safe if things don't go as planned.

His secondary reason is a little more selfish. He misses her. It's almost amusing, how much he misses her these days, because he sees her all the time now. Their nights belong to them and them alone. They are no longer separated by hundreds of miles, or by the Capitol's manipulations, or by their own wariness to admit their affections. They are here, together – and yet…

He misses the way things were before. And even though he could change it all if he were to just push those demons away from him – those memories that claw their way into his head whenever they are alone together – it is harder to do it than he had thought it would be.

Even though they are no longer separated by the distance, there is a severance between their souls that had not existed before, and he doesn't know how to put an end to it. So instead of searching for a miracle, he just instructs Finnick on what to do and watches as the Victor's body engulfs Elara's, putting her into a hold. He instructs Elara how to get out of it, and though it takes several attempts, she finally manages to throw Finnick off of her. The proud, beaming smile she sends him when she does makes his heart beat solidly against his chest.

Finnick, ever good-natured, congratulates her and pulls her into a hug – and Gloss, ever protective, grouses, "Okay, that's enough."

Elara laughs at him. Finnick just snorts, "You're cute and all, Gloss, but I'm soon to be a married man."

His words immediately have everyone pausing in surprise. Elara gapes at him, pulling back slightly to look up at him with wide eyes as she splutters, "Marriage? Since when? How?"

Her inquiries make him burst into laughter, but it's obvious that he isn't merely laughing because of Elara's questions. There is a lightness in his eyes and expression that speaks of true happiness, and his laughter reflects it.

"I asked Annie to marry me last night," he tells her, smiling exuberantly. His eyes are shining. He looks happier than Elara's ever seen him.

She laughs too, happy for him, and pushes her hand through her hair as she says, "That's great, Finnick. You'll invite us to the wedding, won't you? I'd love to visit District 4."

Her words make Finnick pause. His smile turns quiet but no less happy when he shrugs, "Actually, we want to have the wedding here in District 13, as soon as possible. We've both been waiting long enough." Then, pausing again, he adds offhandedly, "Coin wants to use the footage for propaganda, but honestly, Annie and I just want to tie the knot already."

He grins when Elara laughs and goes in to hug him again. When she pulls back, Gloss haltingly mumbles, "Congratulations then. Cash and I were going to spend the afternoon getting some target practice in. I'll see you both later."

As he takes his leave, Elara raises an eyebrow at his retreating back and glances over at Finnick as if she's silently asking him what's wrong with Gloss. But even though Finnick likes to pretend that he's got the answer to everything, he just shrugs helplessly.

"Maybe he wanted to be the first Victor to sweep his girl off her feet?" he supplies, snickering a bit because even as he says the words, he absolutely cannot imagine Gloss Augustine being upset about something like that.

Elara can't, either. She rolls her eyes at him and mutters, "I don't think Gloss really cares about marriage, Finnick."

And yet – as the words leave her mouth, a memory that she has nearly forgotten blossoms through her mind, and she turns to glance back at Gloss with a confused expression as the memory unravels.

"_Careful, Gloss. If our relationship gets out, Snow might make you marry me to keep up appearances."_

"_What makes you think I wouldn't?"_

She frowns, perplexed, and wonders if he had truly meant those words. If marriage is really something that the great Gloss Augustine yearns for.

She doesn't find out until later that night, when they are both getting ready for bed in their tiny little compartment. Gloss has been in a strange mood since the training session that afternoon. He was oddly silent during dinner, refraining from his usual jokes with Amelia and only speaking a handful of words to the rest of them. The mood seems to have lasted since then, for he is full of this strange solemnity as he wrangles himself out of his navy jumpsuit and tosses it haphazardly onto the floor near the dresser.

Elara has a feeling that his mood has something to do with Finnick's news, but she isn't sure she knows how to broach the subject. Gloss is the sort of man who speaks when he's good and ready and not a moment before. She's tried to get him to talk about things plenty of times in the past with no success. Until he wants to talk about something, he'll keep his mouth shut.

She's in the middle of trying to figure out if there's a way to change all that this time around when he makes things easy for her and grumbles, "I can't believe they're getting married."

He flops down onto the end of the mattress with an expression that's a bit difficult to place. It's part reluctance, part jealousy, part judgement. She isn't sure which emotion it leans towards the most, so Elara just pauses as she sits against the pillows and studies him.

He turns his head towards her when she doesn't respond, and raises an eyebrow. The gruff way he explains, "We're all going to war, Elara," only clears things up marginally. She still isn't sure why he's got a problem with Finnick and Annie getting married before the soldiers ship off.

With a confused frown, she pushes off the pillows and crawls closer to him, propping herself up on her elbow and sinking her fingers into his hair. "What's so wrong about getting married before the war? They love each other."

Gloss just scoffs, though, and mutters, "It's irresponsible."

When he doesn't offer any other explanation, Elara sighs. "Finnick's been in love with Annie since she won her Games years ago. It's only natural that they'd want to tie the knot in case something goes wrong." She pauses, eyes getting a little hazy as she stares off into space and murmurs, "…At least they could say they were together for a little while…"

Below her, Gloss raises his eyes to study the soft expression that blossoms over her face. His mouth tilts down into a frown. In truth, her words hit a little too close to home for him to disregard them entirely. After all, he's been in love with her for years too, and when she puts it like that, it doesn't sound so very awful…to have her for as long as he's able to.

Yet the moment passes quickly, and Gloss pushes himself up to face her with a pinched expression.

"And if something goes wrong and Finnick doesn't make it back? If he dies in the Capitol, and leaves Annie as a widow before she can really call herself a bride?"

The questions have Elara looking up at him, only to find that he's staring at her with that solemn look in his eyes, as if these thoughts have been an important matter that he's spent the entire day considering. He shakes his head at her and murmurs seriously, "If I was to marry you, I would do it when I knew that I'd be able to have you for the rest of my life. I wouldn't marry you and then go off to war. I'd make sure I could grow old with you. Do everything that a pair of newlyweds should have the chance to do."

She stares at him in shock. If anything, this is the _last_ thing she had expected as far as this conversation goes. Gloss's reasoning is more than just sound – it's utterly enchanting. She's honestly feeling a little bit dazed in the face of his words. She doesn't think she's ever heard him say anything half so romantic to her. She hadn't realized he had it in him.

The dazed look on her face must be somewhat amusing, because the corner of Gloss's mouth edges up just so as if he's fighting off a smile. He raises an eyebrow at her and murmurs, "Say something, Winston."

Elara just exhales with a brief laugh and shakes her head. Her voice is a little far away when she responds, "I'm not sure what to say." Then, after a short pause, she studies his gaze and wonders, "Do you want to get married some day?"

The question immediately throws him for a loop. It's obvious in the way he pulls back a bit and looks away from her. It's obvious enough that Elara softly laughs, "You don't have to answer…it's just – "

"When the war is over," he interrupts, cutting into her words with a staunch blaze of power that takes her by surprise yet again. It seems that tonight is a night for being shocked by him.

Once more, she stares. And then, hesitantly, she murmurs, "…Really?" Her mouth curls into a mischievous smile as she leans forward and breathes, "You actually want to go the traditional route?"

At this, his mouth tilts up and he chuckles. Edging closer to her, Gloss hums, "Why are you so surprised?"

He watches her shrug, watches her fight back a smile – and he thinks for the hundredth time that she is the most enchanting woman he's ever seen.

Elara reaches up to circle her arms around his neck and shrugs, "You aren't really the marriage type, Gloss."

He raises an eyebrow at her and gently pushes her down onto the mattress. As he leans in to kiss her, he whispers, "I'm not. But you…I'd marry you in a heartbeat."

And then, as his mouth captures hers, Elara laughs against him – and the sound is so bright and happy that Gloss can't help but laugh too, until they're both chuckling together on the mattress and wondering at the potential life that is suddenly blossoming before their very eyes.


	61. That might make this love easier to hold

**Chapter Sixty one | That might make this love easier to hold**

"_O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,_

_Being in night, all this is but a dream,_

_Too flattering-sweet to be substantial."_

_2.2, 139-141 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_The desert is like another world tonight. Outside of the city limits, with the neon lights behind him and the universe ahead, Gloss can see so far into the heavens that his head spins at the sheer enormity of it all. It's breathtaking in a humbling way, to realize just how miniscule his life actually is when he compares it to the vastness of space._

_There are a hundred thousand stars flickering down at him; tiny pinpricks of light that shoot through the sky like a star bound blanket. Not a single cloud veils the sight. Nothing is hidden from him. It's poetic almost, because so much of his life is._

_Maybe he's being overly sentimental, but it's hard not to be when the universe itself is in his backyard. His freedom is up there among the stars. A life without manipulation and blackmail; without President Snow breathing down his neck and ensuring that he is always the perfect District 1 Victor who can do no wrong. His deliverance from this life of darkness and sin dances just beyond his grasp._

_In a moment of wistfulness, Gloss reaches his hand up, closing his fingers around a star as if he means to pluck it from the sky. He comes up short though, as always. It is too far away, and like everything in his life, it slips from his grasp. He wonders if that will ever change – if everything will always slip past him like smoke between his fingers, ever fated to flicker out just when he thinks he's found something worthwhile. He really hopes that isn't the case in every aspect of his life, because he's found something extremely worthwhile these past few years. Something that he thinks he might need in order to survive._

_Is it a starry sky in District 5, or cloudy and foggy like Elara always says it is whenever he finds an excuse to call her? These days, these sorts of thoughts have been constant. He finds himself thinking of her in the least opportune moments. She is always in his head. If he isn't swept up in some beautiful memory of their recent time together in the Capitol, then he's wondering what she's doing far away in her home._

_It's a unique brand of torture, because it's also so incredibly invigorating to have someone to think about at all. He's never been this swept up in a woman before. He's never allowed himself to be._

_Falling in love with Elara Winston had not been a conscious decision on his part, but then again he doubts it ever is. People don't decide to love someone. It isn't a choice that's made after weighing pros and cons. Love is a creature that can't be explained. It's a lightning bolt; a crashing tempest. It's being guided down a path that you hadn't known existed until now, because it had been shrouded from your sight._

_And then, suddenly, it isn't hidden anymore, and it hasn't been for a while only you hadn't known it, and you're already halfway down it before you realize that it is a one-way road and there's no going back. You can't just turn around. You're already too far onto it, and when you glance over your shoulder you can no longer see the path behind you. The version of yourself before you started walking it no longer exists. You have become changed, and the only direction that's left open to you is forward._

_He thinks that he'd been on this path for a long time, but his resistance to love's tempestuous embrace had been so strong that he hadn't seen the signs of its presence. He hadn't seen them until he'd looked into Elara's eyes one night and realized just how gorgeous they are, and how much he adores the way she smiles that wry smile when she's in a playful mood, and how easily he falls into her when they're making love. He hadn't realized that was what they were making, until it was too late. When he'd looked back down that path, he'd known that he couldn't turn around. He had already taken one step too far; already let himself be swayed by her. A willing, eager participant in a love too boundless to comprehend._

_As he stands at the edge of the desert he wonders if it's all worth it after all. Love isn't the sweet, tender thing that poets claim. It isn't gentle._

_It's feeling like there are thorns stuck in his heart, and every time he moves they tear the wound deeper. It's bloody and messy and it hurts. Love is a vagabond and a thief. And yet…_

_And yet._

_When he's with her he forgets how dismal his life is. How painful it is to watch his sister go through what she does. How much it agonizes him to see the schedule that's so precisely written out each month, detailing the forced servitude of his Capitol life; the other half of an existence that is already so warped. He forgets that he is a murderer and a killer, that his hands are bloodied by sins too grievous to forgive. He forgets that, even though he portrays himself with confident pride, he loathes the man that peers back at him whenever he sees his reflection._

_But she doesn't. Sometimes, he can't fathom how or why, but it's true. She sweeps him up into a love so deep that he falls hard every time, and in falling, he loses every angle of himself that is ruthless and unkind. He doesn't understand how she can want him when she knows full well how undeserving he is. He is a thunderstorm trapped in a human body, but she has a way of sweeping that storm out to sea with a single kiss._

_It frightens him sometimes, but…_

_God, if he could have one thing to call his own, to have and to hold, to claim entirely as his, it would be her._

* * *

In the course of the next week, time seems to fly. Apparently, President Coin is very much set on filming Finnick and Annie's wedding as soon as possible, because it's all the district is talking about. There is an excitement in the air that cannot be quenched, even with the war looming on their doorstep. The people of District 13 are a dour group, but even they seem to be eager for a celebration.

According to Finnick and Annie's updates during mealtimes, it's been a struggle to convince Coin and her strict generals to allow certain customs to be included in the ceremony. Celebrations aren't exactly a regular occurrence in this place, where efficient day to day operations are taken far more seriously. They see the act of music and dancing as an indulgence. They view proper wedding attire as a silly intricacy. And as for such things like baking a wedding cake, well, it is an excessive squandering of resources.

Luckily, neither Finnick nor Annie are interested in having a big white traditional wedding. They're far more focused on simply being able to call themselves husband and wife. But, also luckily, Finnick is resourceful in his own way and has managed to convince President Coin that, if she wants to use this ceremony for the perfect propaganda, she needs to be a little more relaxed in her approach.

Apparently here in District 13, weddings are as utilitarian as every other aspect of life. Newlyweds wear their standard jumpsuits, the ceremonies are short and to the point, and the only real difference is that the rations are distributed with a little more generosity than they usually are. Once Finnick blazes his way into the plans, though, he manages to convince Coin to be a bit more lax in her approach.

Annie and Katniss are given the go ahead to make a brief visit to District 12 with a revenue of soldiers. When they return to District 13, they come bearing clothes for the bride and groom: one of the gowns that Cinna had designed for Katniss during her Victory Tour, and a suit from Peeta's closet for Finnick. They need to be tailored somewhat, but they definitely beat wearing the scratchy jumpsuits on such an important day.

Fiddlers are wrangled into service to perform at the reception – something that is both a curiosity and a source of excitement for the citizens of District 13, who are far more accustomed to having the ceremony itself be the only aspect of a wedding worth attending. They spend the week collaborating in one of the many rooms on the upper levels of the district, scrabbling some pieces together in their effort to be ready on time.

Perhaps the most amazing thing of all is that Peeta has stepped up to make the wedding cake. He's been under lock and key in the hospital for weeks now, ever since arriving in District 13 and trying to kill Katniss, the girl he seems to forget that he loves. The doctors have been bending over backwards trying to set his mind right, but so far they haven't had much success. Unraveling the stringent effects of the Capitol's torture is not as easy as it might seem, especially when said torture has altered the very memories that Peeta used to hold so dear. Elara hasn't heard much in the way of progress regarding the younger Victor, and the fact that he is well enough to bake a cake and decorate it is incredible. The doctors claim that it is a form of therapy for him, and have spent the week earnestly convincing their president to allow it.

Elara doesn't know what the big deal is, really. Weddings aren't supposed to be so strict. If she were to get married, then she'd want to enjoy herself. She wouldn't feel bad able indulging herself in dancing and cakes.

The thought makes her pause on her way down the hallway. Perhaps it's simply the fact that everyone is so excited to have a celebration, or maybe it's because of the discussion she'd had with Gloss several nights ago, but she's been thinking about her own potential wedding almost endlessly these days. She's never allowed herself to think that far ahead, or even to believe that such a thing could ever be possible, but suddenly the doors seem to open before her and there are no limitations to these silly dreams. She can so clearly imagine getting married to Gloss. The thought of living with him as his wife makes her smile girlishly whenever she thinks on it.

It is, admittedly, something that Johanna notices as she sees Elara approach.

"You look like a lovesick idiot," Johanna tells her unapologetically. She raises an eyebrow at the net that Elara's got in her hands and grumbles, "Come on already. Let's get this over with." She grumbles something else about how bossy Finnick is and pushes off from the wall.

Elara laughs and nudges her playfully. The day before, Finnick had stopped the two women and had wrangled them into service before they could escape. Apparently there are a few traditions in District 4 that he wants to incorporate into the wedding. Elara's spent the entire morning searching for one of them. It hadn't been easy to find enough rope to make the net that Finnick had described. Her skillset comes up rather short when it concerns making something like this, so she had naturally taken it to Mags. She hasn't seen much of the older woman of late, so it had been nice to sit with her and watch her lovingly create the net out of the length of rope that Elara had supplied.

"What else does that idiot want? Salt water?" Johanna mutters, looking utterly unimpressed with the strange customs of District 4. Johanna isn't the most romantic person alive, which only makes it that much more amusing that Finnick had wrangled her into helping him with these final touches.

Elara bites back a laugh and suggests, "Let's head down to the cafeteria and see if they can give us some salt."

They don't exactly have an ocean to collect the salt water from, so they have to make use of the resources that they do have. Johanna rolls her eyes, and sighs in aggravation as they change course and head to the cafeteria. Despite her frustrated expression though, Elara suspects that her friend doesn't really mind. It definitely beats watering plants, in any case – something that Johanna enjoys complaining about almost exclusively whenever she's in their company.

"This is stupid," Johanna mutters as they enter the dining space. It's fairly empty right now, with only a few citizens milling around having an early lunch, so it isn't any trouble to approach the counter and inquire into receiving a small jar of salt. The workers are a little confused at the question until Elara explains why they need it, but once the explanation is given they are quick to ration off some of it. Everyone is excited about the wedding, and as such they are all a bit more relaxed.

"Oh don't spoil the fun," Elara tells Johanna as they wait at the counter. She glances over at her friend and wonders, "Don't you have your own wedding traditions back in District 7?"

Johanna shrugs and grunts, "Not really." At Elara's insistent look, she rolls her eyes and admits, "Well, typically the groom will spend the day before the wedding chopping wood. It's a symbol of being able to provide for the new family or some shit. If you ask me, the woman is just as able to chop up some fucking wood herself."

Elara bursts into laughter at her words and responds, "That's _romantic,_ Jo. Don't be frustrating. In District 5, both of the families will go collect mountain laurels the morning of the ceremony and weave them into each other's hair. These sorts of traditions are supposed to be _fun."_

Johanna just scoffs and lazily rests her chin on her palm as she leans against the counter. "Sounds pretty stupid to me. At least flowers make more sense than salt water and nets though." She eyes the net that's strewn over Elara's shoulder with a discriminating eye.

Elara just smiles and shakes her head. They fall into a short silence, broken only when Elara slowly murmurs, "…Gloss says that in District 1, the wedding couple is given a geode and they have to smash it together. Depending on how it breaks, there's all sorts of superstitions about how the marriage will be."

Johanna looks at her out of the corner of her eye and raises an eyebrow. When she doesn't immediately respond, Elara glances at her and wonders, "What?"

Johanna just snorts, "Has he asked you yet?"

The short question makes her even more confused. Elara raises her eyebrows in bewilderment and asks, "Has he asked me what?"

Her friend just gives her a look and says with no shortage of exasperation, "To _marry_ him, you idiot." When Elara falls silent, looking baffled, Johanna rolls her eyes. "Seriously. You're so thick. You don't even see the way he looks at you half the time, do you?"

Surprised, Elara's mouth hangs open as she stares at her friend. Johanna just waits, looking thoroughly unimpressed, until Elara haltingly murmurs, "Well…he said that after the war…you know, he'd want to marry me. But he hasn't officially asked me or anything."

Johanna gives her a dry look and mutters, "We're talking about _Gloss Augustine_. That sounds about as official as it's gonna get from someone like him."

At this, Elara feels herself smile. She shrugs bashfully and agrees, "That's probably true."

Even when the cafeteria worker returns with the jar of salt and hands it over, Elara can't wipe her smile from her face. She can't help it. She's never been overly traditional, but the thought of being with Gloss in such a way after so many years of forced separation makes her feel as light as air.

As they leave the cafeteria to finish their errands, Johanna just rolls her eyes at Elara's girlish grin and mutters, "God, you make me sick."

But even though the words are harsh, Johanna's tone is almost affectionate, and Elara just beams at her as they head down the hall.

* * *

On the day of the wedding, the entire district is in an uproar. The excitement is so severe that President Coin agrees to give everyone a day off because she feels that their productivity would be in question. Not everyone has this luxury, of course, and not everyone even wants it. Her generals are still hard at work monitoring the Capitol to ensure that they are safe, and her strategists are still planning out their next move and ensuring that all provisions are in place. There's a rumor going around the district that Coin is going to be sending out the first wave of soldiers soon, but this rumor is put on the back burner for today. The wedding and all that comes with it takes precedence for now.

Elara meets up with her friends in the hall. When she edges into Gloss's side, he sends her a short smile and wraps his arm around her waist.

"Where were you?" he wonders, glancing around at the decorations that had been put up that very morning. It isn't much, really, but the garlands have done wonders in terms of transforming the metallic room into something a little more pleasing.

Elara shrugs and relaxes into him as she responds, "With Annie. I'm not very good at braiding hair though, so I left it to Katniss."

Gloss snorts in amusement and mutters, "You're not exactly the most girlish woman around." Then, pausing, he looks down at her with a raised eyebrow and skeptically asks, "Does this mean Katniss is girlier than you? Is that possible?"

She snickers and nudges him. "No, it just means that her younger sister was more interested in looking pretty. Amelia would always bite my head off if I tried to braid her hair, so I never got any practice in."

The mental image this produces makes Gloss snicker too. It's so easy to picture Amelia snapping at her sister for trying to make her look less rebellious and more demure.

He turns his head to press a kiss to her temple, and against her skin he murmurs, "Maybe you'll have other opportunities to practice that particular skill in the future."

Elara pauses, then looks over at him with wide eyes. Her expression has his mouth twisting up in amusement, but he doesn't extrapolate on his words. He doesn't really need to; it's fairly obvious what he's getting at. Feeling herself blush, she clears her throat and turns back to study the garlands with more fascination than she actually feels.

Gloss has been saying things like that all week, and always when she least expects it. He seems to enjoy catching her off guard with these sudden words. Painting a picture of their future together isn't something she necessarily needs help with – she's been dreaming of that very thing for years now – but when he goes out of his way to do it anyhow it makes her feel a strange cocktail of emotions that are rather difficult to describe.

Excitement, love, eagerness – fear. The fear, she's sure, is partially because she's never actually thought they'd be able to have such an opportunity, but mostly because she doesn't know if they actually will after all. The war is not yet won. All of the tentative dreams they've been cultivating these past few weeks could very well shatter.

"Sometimes I don't even know what to say to you," she murmurs, smiling quietly as she thinks on his words. Even though she's afraid of the war, she can't help but push that feeling aside for now. This isn't the right moment to think about that, and she has no desire to dwell on such negative considerations.

At her side, Gloss hums in amusement and squeezes her waist gently. He opens his mouth to respond, but Cashmere cuts in with a muttered, "You two are seriously the worst. As if I'm ready to be an aunt yet. Give me a break."

Her mutterings make Elara burst into quiet laughter, and Gloss just throws an entertained glower at his sister that he clearly doesn't mean. Cashmere doesn't really mean her words either, because she throws Elara a wink a moment later and hooks their arms together as they wait for the bride to arrive.

The room is packed with citizens. Elara doubts she's ever seen so many of them in one place. She's glad that the Victors have been allowed front row seats – both an act of kindness as well as an act of rebellion. Coin has set up the camera crew off to the side, and they've already begun to do a bit of filming. Making sure that all the Victors are in the shots is something Coin had obviously planned.

Elara isn't entirely sure what she thinks about using this wedding as propaganda, but it isn't up to her to make a decision about it. Finnick and Annie hadn't really minded either way. Now that Finnick is free of the Capitol's ironclad grasp, he's got more of a rebellious heart than even Elara had known. He's completely willing to do everything in his power to bring the Capitol down, even if it means using his own wedding ceremony as a means to bolster morale.

As for Annie…well, she's just happy that she can finally marry the man she loves. When she appears in the doorway, everyone is blown away at how lovely she looks, especially Finnick himself, who stares at her adoringly.

The reason for the nets and salt water is made clear as the ceremony begins. The vows are said beneath the net, which seems to be a symbol of being tied together. The salt water is pressed upon their lips upon saying the vows, as if it is a means of sealing the words into existence for the rest of their lives. Elara thinks it's romantic, though Johanna does grumble a bit at the sight, which makes her send her friend a laughing glance.

The vows themselves are construed from an old District 4 sea shanty that is apparently used in their wedding ceremonies, because both Finnick and Annie know the words by heart. Mags takes the net away when the vows are finished and holds out the bowl of salt water for them, beaming up at Finnick as if he is her own son. He practically is at this point, and the heartfelt way she reaches out to squeeze his arm once he dips the salt water over Annie's lips is moving.

Everything about the ceremony is moving, really. Even though it's taking place dozens of miles beneath the surface of the earth, in a rebellious district that isn't known for its softer qualities, the whole thing is beautiful. Neither Elara nor her sister are prone to emotions, but Elara catches sight of Amelia wiping her eyes at some moments of it. The ceremony goes above and beyond expectations, it seems. But – the best part about the evening is the reception.

Once the vows are said and Finnick walks Annie back down the aisle with a beaming grin plastered over his face, the entire atmosphere of the room transforms. The quiet stillness of the ceremony changes over to a rowdier experience as the fiddlers take their places and President Coin makes a speech.

It's obvious that she's not just talking to the crowd gathered before her, but to all of Panem. The cameras are trained on her, and the moment she is finished, the entire room breaks out into loud cheers and clapping as chairs are moved out of the way and the fiddlers begin to saw out a particularly merry tune.

Elara's been to several weddings when she was growing up in District 5, but there is something wild about this one that she isn't accustomed to. Finnick leads Annie into a dance, laughing as he twists her around, and others begin to join in. Elara smiles at the sight. All of District 13 is eager, it seems, to celebrate.

Elara casts a glance at Gloss, waiting for him to ask her to dance. He just raises an eyebrow at her and crosses his arms, though. He's not much of a dancer even though she knows from experience that he's quite good at it. He doesn't like the crowds. He probably thinks it's too effeminate.

She rolls her eyes at him. "Dance with me," she demands, not planning on taking no for an answer.

He glowers at her and shifts his gaze to the rest of the room, reluctantly looking at the full crowd. "Why?" he asks, clearly not looking forward to the prospect.

She huffs, "Because. I want to dance with you."

He just eyes her distrustfully. On Elara's other side, Cashmere snorts, "If he's going to be a killjoy, I'll dance with you Elara."

And before Elara can either accept or refuse, Cashmere grabs her arm and pulls her into a dance. Elara is a little surprised at first, but then she laughs and spins Cashmere around, only feeling a tiny bit silly. Cashmere laughs too, and Elara is struck by the thought that they've never shared such a lighthearted moment before. It's a little baffling, really, considering how close they are. Without the Capitol breathing down their necks, though, everything is so different.

"Now he'll never dance with me," Elara tells her, though she isn't really angry.

Cashmere just smirks and twists them into the center of the group. "Oh, yes he will. I'll make sure of it." She pauses, then adds, "He doesn't want to admit it, but he actually really likes to dance."

Elara snickers at this and tells her, "He's a better dancer than I am."

Her friend twirls her around again and laughs, "That's because we took lessons as children. Our parents wanted us to know how to 'properly conduct ourselves in public'." She snorts at the words, clearly reciting them from some memory that is now long gone, forever to remain in the past. She grins at Elara and hooks her arm around her waist with a chuckle as she drawls, "Johanna told me that he asked you to marry him after the war."

At this, Elara instantly blushes and glances around to see where their vagabond friend has gotten off to, but Johanna is nowhere to be found. Cashmere's coy words make Elara grumble, "He didn't ask me to marry him. He said that _if_ he were to marry me, it would be after the war."

Her rebuttal only makes Cashmere smirk and raise her eyebrows. "My brother has a roundabout way of doing things, as usual. What'd you say?"

Elara purses her lips but humors her. "…I told him he isn't the marrying type."

Cashmere bursts into laughter and responds, "That's true enough. But he'd do anything for you, Elara." Then she smiles and says, "Just think – we could be neighbors. You and Gloss and Amelia and I. It sounds nice."

Elara pauses at the thought and ducks her head with a grin. "Yeah…it does sound nice."

It sounds more than nice; it sounds like a dream.

* * *

As expected, when Elara does wrangle Gloss into a dance, he doesn't hate it as much as he pretends to. He truly is a great dancer, which is something that seems to surprise everyone around them.

"They're staring," he grumbles in her ear as he pulls her back in from a twist. The petulant tone has her chuckling as she leans into him.

He glowers down at her when she responds, "Who cares?"

"I care," he mumbles, but doesn't sound all that upset about it.

She hides a smile into the collar of his jumpsuit and holds him tighter, fingers clenching down around his shoulder as he guides her through the crowd. It's a moment she won't soon forget – and decides not to tell him that Finnick is laughing on the other side of the room as he looks at them, lest Gloss gets annoyed. Elara gives Finnick a look that she hopes will stop him from ruining the fun time she's having, and thankfully Finnick winks at her and stops.

"Are District 1 weddings like this?" she asks Gloss after a moment, turning to look up at him.

The question immediately makes him scoff and drawl, "No way. This would be way too shabby to pass as a wedding in District 1." At her raised eyebrow, he mutters, "We do everything in excess back home. Don't look at me like that."

Elara smiles wryly and he goes on to tell her, "People get married when the stars are out. It's a nighttime event. They gather at the edge of the desert to say their vows, and after the reception the bride is whisked off to the honeymoon suite in a location that's completely planned out by the groom."

This makes Elara raise her eyebrows skeptically. "Only the _groom_ makes that decision?"

Gloss nudges her playfully and drawls, "Of course. It's part of the groom's gift."

She isn't sure she follows, until he pulls her closer and kisses her cheek, and against her skin he lowly murmurs, "The honeymoon typically lasts for a few weeks, in which the newlyweds are very rarely seen."

Elara tightens her grasp of his shoulder and swallows tightly as Gloss moves his lips to her jaw. Apparently, he's forgotten about the fact that they're in a crowd, because he when he tilts her chin up to kiss her properly, he does so in such a confident way that Elara is immediately swept up in it.

"Mmm…very rarely seen, you say?" she mumbles into the kiss, eyes fluttering as he sinks into her.

Gloss smirks and growls, "The men from District 1 are very possessive of their brides…"

She moans quietly and pulls him closer, tugging at his hair and humming against his mouth. And she wonders if she'll ever reach the edge of the desert with him. If she'll ever say those vows beneath the stars and be whisked off to that honeymoon suite…

Or if the night sky will shutter itself off, and the desert sand will swallow up those dreams before they can blossom.


	62. And vault it into immortality

**A/N: This chapter does contain smut. This also shouldn't surprise anyone at this point ;)**

* * *

**Chapter Sixty Two | And vault it into immortality.**

"_Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again._

_I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins_

_That almost freezes up the heat of life."_

_4.3, 14-16 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Dawn in the Capitol is perhaps the only time when the city appears to be less severe. The rays of light that dash into the skyscrapers dulls down the insistent steel grey infrastructure of the place and makes everything glimmer with a friendlier glow. The dawn is also the quietest part of the day in this sleepless place, where its citizens oftentime prefer partying over rest. There's hardly anyone outside down below in the usually bustling sidewalks. It's too early yet for the commuter traffic, and too late for drunken squabbles._

_The dawn is like a balance of ideals in this place. Every single extreme that exists here in the Capitol's streets are washed away. They are purged in the whimsy of pinks and oranges and blues as they layer through the sky and dash into the reflective surfaces of windows and cars and signs. At the face of dawn, the people here bow their heads and keep their silence._

_Elara only has a slightly different reaction._

_Gloss's skin is warm beneath her fingers, and it provides a strange contrast to the chill of the shirt that she slides over his shoulders. The fabric is smoothed up his arms slowly, the buttons lined up but left ignored for now. They are on a schedule, but she can't help but take her time a little bit._

_Gloss's train leaves in an hour. If the station hadn't been located so close to her apartment, he'd probably be a little less relaxed right about now. As it is, though, he can't really find it in him to feel anything but grief._

_After this morning, he won't see her for two months. Though they'll both be coming back to the Capitol themselves a few times in between, he won't see her face or feel her against him or be with her in any way at all._

_A shiver catches him like an errant wind when Elara presses a lingering kiss to his chest. He inhales softly and looks down at where she's standing in front of him. She's stooped a little bit, bending down so that she can reach his skin, and he feels his mouth quirk up at the sight. His smile slowly grows when she proceeds to turn the simple act of getting dressed into the most profound moment he has ever experienced._

_Her touch is reverential in a way he can't describe. Every button that she fixes is only done after pressing her mouth to his skin. Her kisses are slow and worshipful. She takes her time moving up his chest, dipping her lips over the familiar expanse of his skin as she dresses him._

_He thought that being undressed by her was overpoweringly intimate, but this is different. It's the edge of sorrow; the need to memorize the warmth of his body before it is gone. There's a longing in every shift of her mouth. As her fingers push the buttons into the shirt, they shake with the desire to remove them again. It is a show of fortitude that comes through with every exhale that he feels brushing over him; a patient endurance that makes his throat close up._

_There are so many sides of this yearning that he can barely breathe._

_Gloss is silent as he reaches forward to tangle his fingers into her hair. The silken strands fall through his grasp like a waterfall of auburn. In the glimmering light of dawn's soft embrace, it shines with reddish gold highlights. He thinks it looks like the shimmering incandescence of goldstone, with its flecks of light trapped in the flaming hue._

_He wants to say something to her – make her feel better about the long separation that is stretched out before them – but the words do not come._

_She kisses his collar, fingers working on the top section of the shirt. When she presses her lingering kisses into the hollow of his neck and finishes doing up the final button, he feels an insensible panic hit him squarely in the chest. He doesn't want her to stop. He craves more of her fervent kisses. He craves more of her._

_Returning to District 1 always brings him mixed feelings. He is always grateful to be back where he belongs, to the desert of his home. The familiar landscape is soothing to him. It is a balm that his soul needs after his frequent trips to the Capitol. But – she is not there, and the vast stretch of the desert is also a reminder that he will never be fully satisfied unless she is with him. Going back home heals his torn soul but injures his heart._

_Elara must see some of his emotions in the stiffness of his shoulders – or maybe she feels it herself, this crash of useless longing – for she does not stop kissing him. When the final button is done, she moves her lips to the column of his throat, tucking kisses against his skin as she moves her fingers to the collar of his shirt. She takes an unnecessary amount of time straightening the already straight contours of it, but he doesn't tell her to stop fussing over him. He merely continues to thread his fingers through her hair, closing his eyes as he tries to press the feel of her into his memory. He will need the impression of her during the long, cold absence that is coming._

_She presses her lips beneath his jaw, tilting her head as her fingers fret at the collar of his shirt, dipping around his neck as she runs her fingers over the fabric of it. His eyes remain closed when she turns her attention to his face, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. Her thumb brushes over his freshly shaved jaw, delighting in the smooth skin and mourning the loss of his scruff at the same time. She inhales the scent of his aftershave, trying to retain every detail of him as her lips burn a path over his chin._

_When her lips find his, Gloss lets out a ragged sigh that she feels deep within her. It is a sound that perfectly mirrors her own emotions, full of burning greed and pining. She already misses him and they haven't even said goodbye yet._

_He turns his mouth into hers, sinking into her kiss as his eyes flutter open. His hand reaches up to tangle in her hair, clutching at the back of her head and holding her firmly in place. His other hand grasps her waist tightly, heaving her into him as he bends her back and pretends that this kiss isn't a goodbye in and of itself._

_But it is. They are masters of silent goodbyes. After so many years of dragging that word into verbal existence, they have found other ways to extend its meaning. They don't have to say it for it to live in the spaces between them. Their lips may not form the word itself, but they act out its deliverance regardless._

_Her brows furrow at the intense longing that shudders through her, hand moving to his neck to pull him closer. She grasps at him solidly, fingers clenching into the sleeve of his shirt to keep him pressed against her. She wants to undo all the work she has just done – tug at his clothes until he is bare and keep him in her bed an hour longer but –_

_She can't._

_They don't say a single word. They don't need to. As Gloss slowly breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against hers to stare at her, his eyes say everything that needs to be said. They speak every single word in existence._

_Heart wrenching grief, inexorable happiness, pain so great it keels him over and – love. Deep, possessive love._

_When he leaves, Elara still feels the remnant of that love delving through her body, but without him there as irrefutable proof of its existence, it mingles with every hollow inconsistency that she has ever felt and drifts away like fog._

* * *

When the troop orders come, Elara is not prepared. In the aftermath of Finnick and Annie's wedding, the atmosphere of District 13 has been lighthearted, and for a short time, the looming war had been put onto the backburner. When she enters her living quarters later that evening though, she can't help but remember the fact that they are not yet safe. They are not yet free.

Gloss is waiting for her. Finnick, Cashmere, and him had been called to a meeting during dinner, so Elara had eaten with everyone else instead. Their curiosity had been stoked, naturally, so when she sees him riffling through the bottom half the their shared dressed, she is hit with a wave of wariness that catches her squarely in the chest.

He is packing. She knows what that means.

He looks up at her when she steps into the room, expression calm and stoic even, as if he has locked some part of himself away. In a manner of speaking, it isn't as if this should surprise her. These past few weeks of living in District 13 have been long awaited by them both, but the atmosphere between them has been intrinsically altered since their time in the penthouse. That he is trying to keep some part of him under wraps has become a common thing – another wave to navigate in the deep ocean that has shifted into the spaces between them.

"…What are you doing?" she asks haltingly, even though she already knows.

Gloss straightens up and turns to face her, eyes flickering with an emotion that even he has trouble keeping at bay. He doesn't respond, and she knows it's because he's already very much aware that she doesn't really need him to. There is only one reason he would have to be packing up his things, after all.

The war has been looming over them for weeks now. Perhaps it's because they've been in such close proximity to each other, but despite the war's imminence, she had rather forgotten that she would have to say goodbye to him again.

_Again._ Her mind spins with memories long past, swept up in the years of separation and goodbyes. How many more of those must they have?

She steps forward, pushes her hand through her hair, and whispers, "When?"

Gloss looks down at the jumpsuit he's folding. Coin had given them all the order to return the borrowed clothes to the laundry unit before they leave. The soldiers will be outfitted with superior armor and combative gear, which he's to pick up in the morning. The morning…right before they are scheduled to depart. It had been sudden for him, too.

When he glances back up at Elara and sees that her eyes are filling with tears, he drops the jumpsuit and blurts, "Don't cry – Elara, come on." He reaches for her, rubbing her arms in hopes that it will stop her tears. She rarely ever cries, but he knows from experience that the sight will make it that much harder to leave her.

She grasps his biceps and demands, "When, Gloss?"

He purses his mouth with a heavy sigh and murmurs, "Tomorrow morning."

The information makes her pause, hand flying to her forehead as she rubs over it. The news is too sudden for her to easily wrap her mind around. She thought they had longer, but she shouldn't have presumed such a thing. Forever has never existed between them.

Gloss pulls her against him and explains, "There's been a development and Coin wants to send the main troops in as soon as possible to clear the way. Cashmere and I are leaving with them. Finnick'll be sticking around a bit longer."

His words make her sharply pull back to stare at him, eyes piercing into his. There is a strange anger in her blue gaze that almost takes him aback – and would, if she doesn't immediately repeat, "The main troops? Are you saying you're on the front lines?"

Her voice is as sharp as her tone. Gloss clears his throat and shifts on his feet, muttering, "That's our assignment. I wouldn't have argued it even if I could have."

Elara narrows her eyes at him and cuts, "You're going to die and everything we've been working for these past few months will be for nothing!"

Gloss narrows his eyes too. He isn't the type to shy away from a challenge, even if that challenge comes in the form of his occasionally headstrong lover. In an aggravated voice, he responds, "I'm a Victor from District 1, Elara. I've been training my entire life. Have a little more faith!"

She pulls away and barks out a laugh as she mutters, "This isn't the arena, Gloss. You can't charm your way through war."

Puffing out his chest, he demands, "What's that supposed to mean?"

She turns to him with a glower. "It means that it doesn't matter how skilled you are. There aren't any sponsors to keep you alive this time."

He scoffs at her and turns back to his packing, shoving his jumpsuits into his duffle bag angrily. His shoulders are shaking with barely controlled fury, but it isn't just Elara's words that are drawing it over him. He's angry at so many things these days. He's always been angry, really, and he's never been very good at dealing with those wayward emotions.

"I want to fight," he says as he stuffs the remainder of this clothes into the bag. He glances over at Elara with blazing eyes and adds, "I'm going to take pleasure in bringing down the Capitol."

Elara glares at him and crosses her arms. "So you don't even care that you're probably heading to your death?"

He turns to her and exclaims, "I'm not doing to die, Elara. Stop assuming the worst for fuck's sake – "

"It feels like I'll never see you again," she cuts in, suddenly feeling weaker than ever. If she was a fighter, she could join him but – she isn't. She can't.

Gloss immediately quiets at her words, staring at her carefully for a long moment before sighing and tossing the duffle bag onto the bed. He strides towards her in three steps and drags her into his arms, pulling her into a kiss that only makes her feel marginally better, because it makes this moment feels like the last, too.

She clings to him desperately, already forgetting her anger in favor of having him pressed against her. If she's being honest with herself, it isn't even him that she's angry with. It's the Capitol. President Snow. The years of manipulation and prostitution. The forced compliance of their lives and the fact that they've never even had a chance to build anything concrete or lasting, because –

They're Victors, and there is no such thing as having a normal future for them.

But God, she wants it. She wants to be with him in every single way she can. She doesn't want him to leave her now, because if he doesn't return, she'll be ruined.

"Make love to me, Gloss," she gasps against his mouth, clutching him tightly as if she's afraid that he's going to turn into smoke and drift through her fingers. And he pauses, because the words fill him with the very same contradicting feelings that he's been struggling with for weeks now. Wanting her but not being able to bring himself to have her.

He starts to pull away, but this time, Elara isn't going to take no for an answer.

"Don't leave until we fix this," she begs, pulling him back before he can wrangle himself out of her arms. She kisses him again, and the demanding nature of the kiss has him sinking his fingers into her hips and falling into her.

Even as he kisses her back, though, he mutters, "I don't know if we _can_ fix it."

Elara just shakes her head and whispers against his mouth, "You said once that sex fixes everything."

He closes his eyes and frowns, holding her tightly as he tries to put his emotions into balance. It isn't easy. With pursed lips, he chokes, "Sex is the very thing that's broken us though."

All those nights in the penthouse suite, stripped down to their very bones – forced to play out scenarios that are so familiar to them, yet so appallingly unfamiliar. They've both had clients before but to have them together, at the same time, is not the same. The penthouse has broken them. It has broken the tentative foundations that they have spent years building up, laying the bricks one by one in a flimsy effort to have something that could never be theirs to begin with. And – it had all fallen in a single night, crashing down like a tempest of notes stamped out into the low octaves of an unfinished symphony.

He isn't sure if it will ever be finished.

Elara shakes against him and tearfully whispers, "Gloss. If you leave now, I'm afraid we'll never be able to be the way we were before."

He frowns deeper, closes his eyes tighter, and breathes, "I want you, Elara. I just…"

She kisses him again and runs her hands over his chest, thumbing over the fabric of the jumpsuit as she earnestly says, "I know things aren't the same, but let's pretend that they are, just for tonight."

He sighs and opens his eyes to look at her, reaching up to palm her cheek. When she starts unbuttoning his jumpsuit, tentatively studying his expression all the while, he doesn't pull away. Even as he kicks it off and stands in front of her wearing only his briefs, he doesn't stop her. But he does think that her words are almost ironic, because they've only ever had the night to act out their affections. They've spent years living in the singularity of an isolated nighttime hour.

When she splays her hand over his chest, he shivers. He feels as though they aren't alone. He feels eyes burning into him from behind. A stranger's touch. What if he hurts her again? What if that stranger wants him to be rough and domineering? He is so stuck in the thought that it isn't until Elara brings both hands to his face and tilts his head towards her that he remembers they are here in District 13. Safe. He breathes out, eyes roving over her features almost manically.

"Look at me," she whispers to him. "Focus on me."

He clenches his jaw and listens to her. He doesn't look away when she pulls her jumpsuit off, or unclasps her bra, or shuffles out of her underwear. Inch by inch, the creamy expanse of her skin is revealed to him, and little by little, he begins to feel the familiar press of desire cling to his heart.

There is something to be said about being with someone that you know inside and out. It is like inhaling an invigorating burst of crisp air. As the coolness of winter fills your lungs, the tendrils of cold get swept up into the innate warmth of your person and presents a scintillating contrast that you feel in every cell of your body. They say that fire is transformative, but there is a power to the cold that fire cannot even begin to understand. It is exhilarating. It rejuvenates you with all the force of a ruptured dam.

Gloss feels that force, when Elara presses her body against his.

He doesn't know what comes over him in that moment – what the power is behind the severity of his need for her. It arrives with a thunderbolt and ends in a kiss. It bridges some broken gap that was never meant to exist between them.

Sometimes Fate works silently, so quiet that you never hear its presence in the backdrop of your life at all. It is like the softest crunch of a paw on snow in the barrenness of winter, in an isolated wooded clearing bereft of human conditions. It often prefers to work that way. Humans are complex creatures who make mountains out of flat plains and excel in tangling up their lives. Fate knows the complication of the human mind well.

But – other times, its intervention is not so very silent. Sometimes Fate slams into you so hard that you're left gasping. One moment you are standing tall and straight, eyes arched to the sky; the next, you lose your footing and are reeling into the ground, and you find yourself on a road that you had never meant to be on, going in a direction you never expected you would go. And it is not the change itself that shocks you so deeply, but the momentum of the change. The fact that your life had been planned out and perfectly anticipated only moments before, but – in turning just slightly to the left, the compass in which you have planned your world around is suddenly altered. You have no foundation. You feel as lost as a sailor navigating the open ocean without the stars to guide you.

It is not always bad. Fate knows what it's doing, but humans are tricky things and we do not always trust.

Gloss shudders into her, and Elara presses kisses over his face – lips skimming from his forehead to his cheek, fluttering over his mouth and chin and jaw as she leads him to the bed. He grasps her hands tightly, head bowed over her as she slowly crawls onto the mattress and urges him to follow.

He follows her and his own compass shifts just so, altering his direction with the very same uncertainty that has always guided it. As he nestles against her body and breathes into the kiss she drags him into, he realizes something that feels subtly profound in the silence of the small room. He realizes that his compass has never pointed in one singular direction. There is no True North. There never has been. The arrow has always shifted, its course blurring and circling from East to West to South, always spinning around and around as if it never knew where it wanted to go. He's always been lost in Fate's isolated forest, afraid to take a step lest the snowy tracks that he leaves behind will alert Others to his existence.

He realizes something else, in that moment. As she pulls him down onto the mattress and hooks her leg around his hips and drags her body over his, he realizes that the moment she fell into his life, all of that changed.

If there is such a thing as a North Star, then Elara Winston is his.

He breathes out as she comes down over him, and reaches out to pull her chest flush against his. She had told him to look at her, to focus on her, to follow her, and – he does. He follows her like she is the light that beams down from far above, shining its subtle tempest from the navy blanket of the heavens like an arrow leading him home. And she hovers over him, face centimeters away, hair falling like a curtain that sections them off from the rest of the world.

He can see only her. He can hear only her. He can focus on only her. Everything else drops away so easily that he wonders why they hadn't just done this before. He had been too stubborn to follow the path that was already laid out so clearly in front of him. It had always been laid out, for years now, only he hadn't seen it clearly then.

Before, he thought this path was too tangled and thorny to walk down, but suddenly – it is not tangled, or complicated, or cumbersome. It is grassy and soft. It is full of earthbound stars.

It occurs to him then that the last time they've been together like this, it had been before they'd entered the arena. The thought fills him with a strange feeling that is part anger, part desperation. It drives him forward. Before another moment sweeps them by, he glides his hands around her waist and rolls them over.

If Elara is surprised that he is taking the initiative, she doesn't show it. She merely moans, gasping his name with a breathless beauty that he falls right into as he hooks her leg around his waist and comes back to her. He presses her down, hovers over her with eyes that reflect hints of that anger and desperation – just the barest edges of them, like a stone cut a dozen ways. She takes it from him. She pulls him down and takes it as if she's been waiting to do so for ages now.

He thinks, as he shudders into her with a gasping heave, that she probably has. Elara Winston has always known when he needs before he knows it himself.

He doesn't even realize that his eyes are wet until he feels her fingers brushing over his face. It is like that ruptured dam has broken in a thousand places, and the emotions that he has held onto so tightly are released in a frenzy. He feels like he is being swept out to sea and crawling back onto the shore at the same time; like he is being destroyed and healed all at once. It is overwhelming, almost. He wants to both laugh and cry, so he does.

He heaves out a laugh that makes Elara laugh too, even as she thumbs over his face and kisses away the wetness that creases at the corners of his eyes. It is strange, laughing in the face of the desire the plucks at the very deepest parts of him. And yet, somehow, it is not strange at all.

"I love you," she tells him, whispers the words against his ear as a moan flutters past her lips. He clenches his hand around her waist and breathes out as he takes her, and when he leans down to kiss her, he lets his actions speak out his response.

God, how long has he wanted this? Not only in terms of the last few weeks, but – in years, creeping over each other like twisted vines covering the side of a building. How long as he wanted to make love to her and be able to tell her how much it means to him? To have her, in whatever way. To let her have him too.

He groans against her mouth and breathlessly tells her, "I'll come back to you, Elara. I swear it. I'm going to take you to District 1…I'm going to make you mine."

And – it's her turn to laugh and cry. Gloss kisses her cheek and cradles her against him and breathes, "I'll never let you go again…"

She moans, body twisting. He thunders into her, groaning against her neck as he buries his head against her and grapples with her hip. His fingers dig into her soft flesh, pulling her into his thrusts. She can do nothing but let him, leg curled desperately around him as she surrenders to the passion that he presses into her.

"Gloss – Gloss," she keens, hips thudding into his, body arching up like a sail being filled with a sudden gust of wind. He is the wind. He fills her so completely and she falls so hard.

He groans when he feels her clench down around him, gasping against her skin as he surrenders, too. Within moments, he is falling just as hard as she is, sinking against her with a drawn out sigh. He feels boneless and exhausted. He feels like he is a different man than the one who had warily stood in the center of the room only a little while before.

Elara holds him tightly, her body wrapped around his. Even when he tries to shift to the side, afraid that he is crushing her, she pulls him back.

"Don't go," she whispers, but even though she is outwardly referring to the press of this particular moment, he hears her true meaning plain as day.

_Don't go off to war…don't leave…_

Gloss pulls himself up so that he can look at her, elbow propped near her head. He reaches out to brush his fingertips over her cheek, drawing his touch down to trace the delicate line of her jaw. Her eyes flutter open and catch onto his. For a long moment, they just stare at each other. Many things pass between them in those seconds – things that cannot be put into words alone, things that cannot be expressed with the limitations of spoken language – but then…

Gloss cups her cheek and kisses her, and against her mouth he says, "There's still a lot I want to do with my life, Winston. I told you I'd let you make me an honest man, once, and I intend on following through with that."

Elara gives him a watery smile and kisses him again, tunneling her fingers into his hair to pull him down.

"What else do you want to do with your life?" she wonders quietly, wanting to hear more.

He exhales with a brief laugh and rolls onto his side, turning her into him and stroking over her back. Then, with a soft solemnity, he murmurs, "It isn't a question of what _I _want to do. It's what _we_ want to do."

And the smile that spreads over her face when he says those words is probably the sincerest smile she's given him in months.

Still, in the morning, she finds it very difficult to let him go. She watches him until his figure is swallowed up by the bowels of the hovercraft, and moves only to give Cashmere a fierce hug before she, too, vanishes from sight.

They don't say goodbye.

They've already said that word one too many times already.

**Chapter Sixty Two | And vault it into immortality.**

"_Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again._

_I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins_

_That almost freezes up the heat of life."_

_4.3, 14-16 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

_Dawn in the Capitol is perhaps the only time when the city appears to be less severe. The rays of light that dash into the skyscrapers dulls down the insistent steel grey infrastructure of the place and makes everything glimmer with a friendlier glow. The dawn is also the quietest part of the day in this sleepless place, where its citizens oftentime prefer partying over rest. There's hardly anyone outside down below in the usually bustling sidewalks. It's too early yet for the commuter traffic, and too late for drunken squabbles._

_The dawn is like a balance of ideals in this place. Every single extreme that exists here in the Capitol's streets are washed away. They are purged in the whimsy of pinks and oranges and blues as they layer through the sky and dash into the reflective surfaces of windows and cars and signs. At the face of dawn, the people here bow their heads and keep their silence._

_Elara only has a slightly different reaction._

_Gloss's skin is warm beneath her fingers, and it provides a strange contrast to the chill of the shirt that she slides over his shoulders. The fabric is smoothed up his arms slowly, the buttons lined up but left ignored for now. They are on a schedule, but she can't help but take her time a little bit._

_Gloss's train leaves in an hour. If the station hadn't been located so close to her apartment, he'd probably be a little less relaxed right about now. As it is, though, he can't really find it in him to feel anything but grief._

_After this morning, he won't see her for two months. Though they'll both be coming back to the Capitol themselves a few times in between, he won't see her face or feel her against him or be with her in any way at all._

_A shiver catches him like an errant wind when Elara presses a lingering kiss to his chest. He inhales softly and looks down at where she's standing in front of him. She's stooped a little bit, bending down so that she can reach his skin, and he feels his mouth quirk up at the sight. His smile slowly grows when she proceeds to turn the simple act of getting dressed into the most profound moment he has ever experienced._

_Her touch is reverential in a way he can't describe. Every button that she fixes is only done after pressing her mouth to his skin. Her kisses are slow and worshipful. She takes her time moving up his chest, dipping her lips over the familiar expanse of his skin as she dresses him._

_He thought that being undressed by her was overpoweringly intimate, but this is different. It's the edge of sorrow; the need to memorize the warmth of his body before it is gone. There's a longing in every shift of her mouth. As her fingers push the buttons into the shirt, they shake with the desire to remove them again. It is a show of fortitude that comes through with every exhale that he feels brushing over him; a patient endurance that makes his throat close up._

_There are so many sides of this yearning that he can barely breathe._

_Gloss is silent as he reaches forward to tangle his fingers into her hair. The silken strands fall through his grasp like a waterfall of auburn. In the glimmering light of dawn's soft embrace, it shines with reddish gold highlights. He thinks it looks like the shimmering incandescence of goldstone, with its flecks of light trapped in the flaming hue._

_He wants to say something to her – make her feel better about the long separation that is stretched out before them – but the words do not come._

_She kisses his collar, fingers working on the top section of the shirt. When she presses her lingering kisses into the hollow of his neck and finishes doing up the final button, he feels an insensible panic hit him squarely in the chest. He doesn't want her to stop. He craves more of her fervent kisses. He craves more of her._

_Returning to District 1 always brings him mixed feelings. He is always grateful to be back where he belongs, to the desert of his home. The familiar landscape is soothing to him. It is a balm that his soul needs after his frequent trips to the Capitol. But – she is not there, and the vast stretch of the desert is also a reminder that he will never be fully satisfied unless she is with him. Going back home heals his torn soul but injures his heart._

_Elara must see some of his emotions in the stiffness of his shoulders – or maybe she feels it herself, this crash of useless longing – for she does not stop kissing him. When the final button is done, she moves her lips to the column of his throat, tucking kisses against his skin as she moves her fingers to the collar of his shirt. She takes an unnecessary amount of time straightening the already straight contours of it, but he doesn't tell her to stop fussing over him. He merely continues to thread his fingers through her hair, closing his eyes as he tries to press the feel of her into his memory. He will need the impression of her during the long, cold absence that is coming._

_She presses her lips beneath his jaw, tilting her head as her fingers fret at the collar of his shirt, dipping around his neck as she runs her fingers over the fabric of it. His eyes remain closed when she turns her attention to his face, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. Her thumb brushes over his freshly shaved jaw, delighting in the smooth skin and mourning the loss of his scruff at the same time. She inhales the scent of his aftershave, trying to retain every detail of him as her lips burn a path over his chin._

_When her lips find his, Gloss lets out a ragged sigh that she feels deep within her. It is a sound that perfectly mirrors her own emotions, full of burning greed and pining. She already misses him and they haven't even said goodbye yet._

_He turns his mouth into hers, sinking into her kiss as his eyes flutter open. His hand reaches up to tangle in her hair, clutching at the back of her head and holding her firmly in place. His other hand grasps her waist tightly, heaving her into him as he bends her back and pretends that this kiss isn't a goodbye in and of itself._

_But it is. They are masters of silent goodbyes. After so many years of dragging that word into verbal existence, they have found other ways to extend its meaning. They don't have to say it for it to live in the spaces between them. Their lips may not form the word itself, but they act out its deliverance regardless._

_Her brows furrow at the intense longing that shudders through her, hand moving to his neck to pull him closer. She grasps at him solidly, fingers clenching into the sleeve of his shirt to keep him pressed against her. She wants to undo all the work she has just done – tug at his clothes until he is bare and keep him in her bed an hour longer but –_

_She can't._

_They don't say a single word. They don't need to. As Gloss slowly breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against hers to stare at her, his eyes say everything that needs to be said. They speak every single word in existence._

_Heart wrenching grief, inexorable happiness, pain so great it keels him over and – love. Deep, possessive love._

_When he leaves, Elara still feels the remnant of that love delving through her body, but without him there as irrefutable proof of its existence, it mingles with every hollow inconsistency that she has ever felt and drifts away like fog._

When the troop orders come, Elara is not prepared. In the aftermath of Finnick and Annie's wedding, the atmosphere of District 13 has been lighthearted, and for a short time, the looming war had been put onto the backburner. When she enters her living quarters later that evening though, she can't help but remember the fact that they are not yet safe. They are not yet free.

Gloss is waiting for her. Finnick, Cashmere, and him had been called to a meeting during dinner, so Elara had eaten with everyone else instead. Their curiosity had been stoked, naturally, so when she sees him riffling through the bottom half the their shared dressed, she is hit with a wave of wariness that catches her squarely in the chest.

He is packing. She knows what that means.

He looks up at her when she steps into the room, expression calm and stoic even, as if he has locked some part of himself away. In a manner of speaking, it isn't as if this should surprise her. These past few weeks of living in District 13 have been long awaited by them both, but the atmosphere between them has been intrinsically altered since their time in the penthouse. That he is trying to keep some part of him under wraps has become a common thing – another wave to navigate in the deep ocean that has shifted into the spaces between them.

"…What are you doing?" she asks haltingly, even though she already knows.

Gloss straightens up and turns to face her, eyes flickering with an emotion that even he has trouble keeping at bay. He doesn't respond, and she knows it's because he's already very much aware that she doesn't really need him to. There is only one reason he would have to be packing up his things, after all.

The war has been looming over them for weeks now. Perhaps it's because they've been in such close proximity to each other, but despite the war's imminence, she had rather forgotten that she would have to say goodbye to him again.

_Again._ Her mind spins with memories long past, swept up in the years of separation and goodbyes. How many more of those must they have?

She steps forward, pushes her hand through her hair, and whispers, "When?"

Gloss looks down at the jumpsuit he's folding. Coin had given them all the order to return the borrowed clothes to the laundry unit before they leave. The soldiers will be outfitted with superior armor and combative gear, which he's to pick up in the morning. The morning…right before they are scheduled to depart. It had been sudden for him, too.

When he glances back up at Elara and sees that her eyes are filling with tears, he drops the jumpsuit and blurts, "Don't cry – Elara, come on." He reaches for her, rubbing her arms in hopes that it will stop her tears. She rarely ever cries, but he knows from experience that the sight will make it that much harder to leave her.

She grasps his biceps and demands, "When, Gloss?"

He purses his mouth with a heavy sigh and murmurs, "Tomorrow morning."

The information makes her pause, hand flying to her forehead as she rubs over it. The news is too sudden for her to easily wrap her mind around. She thought they had longer, but she shouldn't have presumed such a thing. Forever has never existed between them.

Gloss pulls her against him and explains, "There's been a development and Coin wants to send the main troops in as soon as possible to clear the way. Cashmere and I are leaving with them. Finnick'll be sticking around a bit longer."

His words make her sharply pull back to stare at him, eyes piercing into his. There is a strange anger in her blue gaze that almost takes him aback – and would, if she doesn't immediately repeat, "The main troops? Are you saying you're on the front lines?"

Her voice is as sharp as her tone. Gloss clears his throat and shifts on his feet, muttering, "That's our assignment. I wouldn't have argued it even if I could have."

Elara narrows her eyes at him and cuts, "You're going to die and everything we've been working for these past few months will be for nothing!"

Gloss narrows his eyes too. He isn't the type to shy away from a challenge, even if that challenge comes in the form of his occasionally headstrong lover. In an aggravated voice, he responds, "I'm a Victor from District 1, Elara. I've been training my entire life. Have a little more faith!"

She pulls away and barks out a laugh as she mutters, "This isn't the arena, Gloss. You can't charm your way through war."

Puffing out his chest, he demands, "What's that supposed to mean?"

She turns to him with a glower. "It means that it doesn't matter how skilled you are. There aren't any sponsors to keep you alive this time."

He scoffs at her and turns back to his packing, shoving his jumpsuits into his duffle bag angrily. His shoulders are shaking with barely controlled fury, but it isn't just Elara's words that are drawing it over him. He's angry at so many things these days. He's always been angry, really, and he's never been very good at dealing with those wayward emotions.

"I want to fight," he says as he stuffs the remainder of this clothes into the bag. He glances over at Elara with blazing eyes and adds, "I'm going to take pleasure in bringing down the Capitol."

Elara glares at him and crosses her arms. "So you don't even care that you're probably heading to your death?"

He turns to her and exclaims, "I'm not doing to die, Elara. Stop assuming the worst for fuck's sake – "

"It feels like I'll never see you again," she cuts in, suddenly feeling weaker than ever. If she was a fighter, she could join him but – she isn't. She can't.

Gloss immediately quiets at her words, staring at her carefully for a long moment before sighing and tossing the duffle bag onto the bed. He strides towards her in three steps and drags her into his arms, pulling her into a kiss that only makes her feel marginally better, because it makes this moment feels like the last, too.

She clings to him desperately, already forgetting her anger in favor of having him pressed against her. If she's being honest with herself, it isn't even him that she's angry with. It's the Capitol. President Snow. The years of manipulation and prostitution. The forced compliance of their lives and the fact that they've never even had a chance to build anything concrete or lasting, because –

They're Victors, and there is no such thing as having a normal future for them.

But God, she wants it. She wants to be with him in every single way she can. She doesn't want him to leave her now, because if he doesn't return, she'll be ruined.

"Make love to me, Gloss," she gasps against his mouth, clutching him tightly as if she's afraid that he's going to turn into smoke and drift through her fingers. And he pauses, because the words fill him with the very same contradicting feelings that he's been struggling with for weeks now. Wanting her but not being able to bring himself to have her.

He starts to pull away, but this time, Elara isn't going to take no for an answer.

"Don't leave until we fix this," she begs, pulling him back before he can wrangle himself out of her arms. She kisses him again, and the demanding nature of the kiss has him sinking his fingers into her hips and falling into her.

Even as he kisses her back, though, he mutters, "I don't know if we _can_ fix it."

Elara just shakes her head and whispers against his mouth, "You said once that sex fixes everything."

He closes his eyes and frowns, holding her tightly as he tries to put his emotions into balance. It isn't easy. With pursed lips, he chokes, "Sex is the very thing that's broken us though."

All those nights in the penthouse suite, stripped down to their very bones – forced to play out scenarios that are so familiar to them, yet so appallingly unfamiliar. They've both had clients before but to have them together, at the same time, is not the same. The penthouse has broken them. It has broken the tentative foundations that they have spent years building up, laying the bricks one by one in a flimsy effort to have something that could never be theirs to begin with. And – it had all fallen in a single night, crashing down like a tempest of notes stamped out into the low octaves of an unfinished symphony.

He isn't sure if it will ever be finished.

Elara shakes against him and tearfully whispers, "Gloss. If you leave now, I'm afraid we'll never be able to be the way we were before."

He frowns deeper, closes his eyes tighter, and breathes, "I want you, Elara. I just…"

She kisses him again and runs her hands over his chest, thumbing over the fabric of the jumpsuit as she earnestly says, "I know things aren't the same, but let's pretend that they are, just for tonight."

He sighs and opens his eyes to look at her, reaching up to palm her cheek. When she starts unbuttoning his jumpsuit, tentatively studying his expression all the while, he doesn't pull away. Even as he kicks it off and stands in front of her wearing only his briefs, he doesn't stop her. But he does think that her words are almost ironic, because they've only ever had the night to act out their affections. They've spent years living in the singularity of an isolated nighttime hour.

When she splays her hand over his chest, he shivers. He feels as though they aren't alone. He feels eyes burning into him from behind. A stranger's touch. What if he hurts her again? What if that stranger wants him to be rough and domineering? He is so stuck in the thought that it isn't until Elara brings both hands to his face and tilts his head towards her that he remembers they are here in District 13. Safe. He breathes out, eyes roving over her features almost manically.

"Look at me," she whispers to him. "Focus on me."

He clenches his jaw and listens to her. He doesn't look away when she pulls her jumpsuit off, or unclasps her bra, or shuffles out of her underwear. Inch by inch, the creamy expanse of her skin is revealed to him, and little by little, he begins to feel the familiar press of desire cling to his heart.

There is something to be said about being with someone that you know inside and out. It is like inhaling an invigorating burst of crisp air. As the coolness of winter fills your lungs, the tendrils of cold get swept up into the innate warmth of your person and presents a scintillating contrast that you feel in every cell of your body. They say that fire is transformative, but there is a power to the cold that fire cannot even begin to understand. It is exhilarating. It rejuvenates you with all the force of a ruptured dam.

Gloss feels that force, when Elara presses her body against his.

He doesn't know what comes over him in that moment – what the power is behind the severity of his need for her. It arrives with a thunderbolt and ends in a kiss. It bridges some broken gap that was never meant to exist between them.

Sometimes Fate works silently, so quiet that you never hear its presence in the backdrop of your life at all. It is like the softest crunch of a paw on snow in the barrenness of winter, in an isolated wooded clearing bereft of human conditions. It often prefers to work that way. Humans are complex creatures who make mountains out of flat plains and excel in tangling up their lives. Fate knows the complication of the human mind well.

But – other times, its intervention is not so very silent. Sometimes Fate slams into you so hard that you're left gasping. One moment you are standing tall and straight, eyes arched to the sky; the next, you lose your footing and are reeling into the ground, and you find yourself on a road that you had never meant to be on, going in a direction you never expected you would go. And it is not the change itself that shocks you so deeply, but the momentum of the change. The fact that your life had been planned out and perfectly anticipated only moments before, but – in turning just slightly to the left, the compass in which you have planned your world around is suddenly altered. You have no foundation. You feel as lost as a sailor navigating the open ocean without the stars to guide you.

It is not always bad. Fate knows what it's doing, but humans are tricky things and we do not always trust.

Gloss shudders into her, and Elara presses kisses over his face – lips skimming from his forehead to his cheek, fluttering over his mouth and chin and jaw as she leads him to the bed. He grasps her hands tightly, head bowed over her as she slowly crawls onto the mattress and urges him to follow.

He follows her and his own compass shifts just so, altering his direction with the very same uncertainty that has always guided it. As he nestles against her body and breathes into the kiss she drags him into, he realizes something that feels subtly profound in the silence of the small room. He realizes that his compass has never pointed in one singular direction. There is no True North. There never has been. The arrow has always shifted, its course blurring and circling from East to West to South, always spinning around and around as if it never knew where it wanted to go. He's always been lost in Fate's isolated forest, afraid to take a step lest the snowy tracks that he leaves behind will alert Others to his existence.

He realizes something else, in that moment. As she pulls him down onto the mattress and hooks her leg around his hips and drags her body over his, he realizes that the moment she fell into his life, all of that changed.

If there is such a thing as a North Star, then Elara Winston is his.

He breathes out as she comes down over him, and reaches out to pull her chest flush against his. She had told him to look at her, to focus on her, to follow her, and – he does. He follows her like she is the light that beams down from far above, shining its subtle tempest from the navy blanket of the heavens like an arrow leading him home. And she hovers over him, face centimeters away, hair falling like a curtain that sections them off from the rest of the world.

He can see only her. He can hear only her. He can focus on only her. Everything else drops away so easily that he wonders why they hadn't just done this before. He had been too stubborn to follow the path that was already laid out so clearly in front of him. It had always been laid out, for years now, only he hadn't seen it clearly then.

Before, he thought this path was too tangled and thorny to walk down, but suddenly – it is not tangled, or complicated, or cumbersome. It is grassy and soft. It is full of earthbound stars.

It occurs to him then that the last time they've been together like this, it had been before they'd entered the arena. The thought fills him with a strange feeling that is part anger, part desperation. It drives him forward. Before another moment sweeps them by, he glides his hands around her waist and rolls them over.

If Elara is surprised that he is taking the initiative, she doesn't show it. She merely moans, gasping his name with a breathless beauty that he falls right into as he hooks her leg around his waist and comes back to her. He presses her down, hovers over her with eyes that reflect hints of that anger and desperation – just the barest edges of them, like a stone cut a dozen ways. She takes it from him. She pulls him down and takes it as if she's been waiting to do so for ages now.

He thinks, as he shudders into her with a gasping heave, that she probably has. Elara Winston has always known when he needs before he knows it himself.

He doesn't even realize that his eyes are wet until he feels her fingers brushing over his face. It is like that ruptured dam has broken in a thousand places, and the emotions that he has held onto so tightly are released in a frenzy. He feels like he is being swept out to sea and crawling back onto the shore at the same time; like he is being destroyed and healed all at once. It is overwhelming, almost. He wants to both laugh and cry, so he does.

He heaves out a laugh that makes Elara laugh too, even as she thumbs over his face and kisses away the wetness that creases at the corners of his eyes. It is strange, laughing in the face of the desire the plucks at the very deepest parts of him. And yet, somehow, it is not strange at all.

"I love you," she tells him, whispers the words against his ear as a moan flutters past her lips. He clenches his hand around her waist and breathes out as he takes her, and when he leans down to kiss her, he lets his actions speak out his response.

God, how long has he wanted this? Not only in terms of the last few weeks, but – in years, creeping over each other like twisted vines covering the side of a building. How long as he wanted to make love to her and be able to tell her how much it means to him? To have her, in whatever way. To let her have him too.

He groans against her mouth and breathlessly tells her, "I'll come back to you, Elara. I swear it. I'm going to take you to District 1…I'm going to make you mine."

And – it's her turn to laugh and cry. Gloss kisses her cheek and cradles her against him and breathes, "I'll never let you go again…"

She moans, body twisting. He thunders into her, groaning against her neck as he buries his head against her and grapples with her hip. His fingers dig into her soft flesh, pulling her into his thrusts. She can do nothing but let him, leg curled desperately around him as she surrenders to the passion that he presses into her.

"Gloss – Gloss," she keens, hips thudding into his, body arching up like a sail being filled with a sudden gust of wind. He is the wind. He fills her so completely and she falls so hard.

He groans when he feels her clench down around him, gasping against her skin as he surrenders, too. Within moments, he is falling just as hard as she is, sinking against her with a drawn out sigh. He feels boneless and exhausted. He feels like he is a different man than the one who had warily stood in the center of the room only a little while before.

Elara holds him tightly, her body wrapped around his. Even when he tries to shift to the side, afraid that he is crushing her, she pulls him back.

"Don't go," she whispers, but even though she is outwardly referring to the press of this particular moment, he hears her true meaning plain as day.

_Don't go off to war…don't leave…_

Gloss pulls himself up so that he can look at her, elbow propped near her head. He reaches out to brush his fingertips over her cheek, drawing his touch down to trace the delicate line of her jaw. Her eyes flutter open and catch onto his. For a long moment, they just stare at each other. Many things pass between them in those seconds – things that cannot be put into words alone, things that cannot be expressed with the limitations of spoken language – but then…

Gloss cups her cheek and kisses her, and against her mouth he says, "There's still a lot I want to do with my life, Winston. I told you I'd let you make me an honest man, once, and I intend on following through with that."

Elara gives him a watery smile and kisses him again, tunneling her fingers into his hair to pull him down.

"What else do you want to do with your life?" she wonders quietly, wanting to hear more.

He exhales with a brief laugh and rolls onto his side, turning her into him and stroking over her back. Then, with a soft solemnity, he murmurs, "It isn't a question of what _I _want to do. It's what _we_ want to do."

And the smile that spreads over her face when he says those words is probably the sincerest smile she's given him in months.

Still, in the morning, she finds it very difficult to let him go. She watches him until his figure is swallowed up by the bowels of the hovercraft, and moves only to give Cashmere a fierce hug before she, too, vanishes from sight.

They don't say goodbye.

They've already said that word one too many times already.


	63. If you were on the furthest shore

**Chapter Sixty Three | And yet, if you were on the furthest shore**

"_Why, Romeo, art thou mad?_

_Not mad, but bound more than a madman is."_

_1.2, 53-54 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

Gloss is accustomed to bloodshed. He grew up learning how to fight his way through life. Death is personal no matter how it happens. Like a stone being thrown into a still lake, it has rippling effects. Or, at least, it should.

There is something very different about war. It isn't death itself that is altered, but the manner in which it is exploited. He's accustomed to using knives and spears. He knows the feel and sound of death intimately. There is no other experience that quite compares to sinking a knife into someone's chest and watching their lifeforce bleed out of their eyes. But – firing a bullet into flesh and bone is intrinsically impersonal in a very stark way. He deals out death quickly and efficiently. With an army at his back, the rebels pour into the Capitol streets and meet the Peacekeeper troops head on. Death is everywhere at once, with a suddenness that bewilders him.

Everything about it is different from what he knows. The loud ricochet of firing guns blisters at his ears. The metallic scent of blood fills the air with cloying intent. He has to keep one eye to the ground lest he trip over a fallen body as the troops move forward, relentlessly pushing into the city. Still, he doesn't waver or question what he's doing. For the first time in what feels like an age, he isn't a Victor. He is one in a thousand; a soldier like the rest of them.

The front lines are far more chaotic than he had expected, but something deep inside his soul unfurls at this bloodshed. Maybe it's immoral and sinful. Maybe it means that he really is a murderer after all. He doesn't know – doesn't give himself time to think about it. All he knows is that he finally has a chance to fight for his freedom, and he isn't going to let that chance slip through his fingers. He will never get this opportunity again.

Freedom is on the tip of his tongue and he can already taste it.

* * *

Days pass. With half of the Victors off fighting in the rebellion, the ones left behind in District 13 are anxious at best, morose at worst. Elara is grateful that Johanna is with her despite her constant complaining. She thinks she'd probably go insane by herself. She knows that Amelia is happy too, for that very same reason.

She spends much of her time with Beetee in the control room. Even though she isn't a soldier, she isn't about to sit back and do nothing. Her friends are out there risking their lives and she'd be damned if she doesn't do something to help them. She still feels a bit useless though, even as she helps Beetee hack into pods and disassemble them. There are thousands of them, and it is tedious work.

When she isn't in the control room keeping busy, she idles her time away in the cafeteria with Johanna, Amelia, and Annie. There are frequent updates on the war which flashes over the large screen that spans one wall of the room, and they huddle close to it in their desire to keep up with the events. Even though Caesar Flickerman is technically not on their side, Elara is always relieved to see his face whenever the screens flicker to life. He spews propaganda with every breath he takes, but at least he gives them an idea regarding what is going on.

She only returns to her compartment when she absolutely has to. Her time in District 13 hasn't been very long, but the memories that have been cultivated within the small metallic walls of her chambers are still poignant and encompassing. She sees Gloss every time she enters the space – stretched out on the bed with his legs hanging over the sides because he is too large for the cot, shucking out of his jumpsuit as he complains about the scratchy fabric, laughing against her mouth as he pulls her into a kiss.

She thinks of him all the time, so much that it is almost aggravating. When she lays down to go to sleep, she thinks of the warmth of his arms and the protective way he pulls her into his body, as if he means to keep her safe from the entire world. She thinks of the gentle spin of his fingers against her back when they lay together and talk about their days. She thinks of the way he grumbles at her every time she teases him, his face petulant.

She thinks of the final moments they'd shared. Of the breathtaking way he had come back to her after all this time. Of the weeks of separation finally coming to their end and the way it had felt to take him inside her after all this time. They had gone longer without being with each other, but there had been something far more visceral in the way he had collapsed into her arms this time. Their love making had broken down a barrier that had yet existed between them. It had recalibrated everything that she had feared was lost.

When he had trembled into her and whispered those beautiful things into her ear, she had nearly cried in relief to hear them. To have him verbalize his desire to bring her back to District 1 with him and make her his – fully, completely, in every way – had nearly shattered her. The hope that had burgeoned through her that night has faded, though.  
She's so worried about him that she can barely breathe. Her stomach has been in knots since he left, and she isn't sure if it will ever be untangled until she has him in her arms again. The anxiety that creeps over her shoulders is a physical burden that she feels weighing her down. There is an unforgiving quality to it that she can't ignore, and even when she's able to find solace in sleep, it's still present in her unconscious mind.

She dreams of him dying in the Capitol streets. She dreams of living the rest of her life without him. Of missing him until the day she dies. Of his blood on her fingers and his head in her lap, unblinking eyes staring sightlessly at the world that he is no longer a part of.

When she has those dreams, she wakes up in tears. She can't imagine a life without him. She doesn't want to.

* * *

"We made good ground today," one of the soldiers murmur as the units take a short break. They've been moving relentlessly for days now, hardly breaking for more than an hour or two. They're all exhausted from lack of sleep, but no one complains. They all know that the sooner they can sweep through the city, the faster they can win this war.

A fresh wave of soldiers had come to take their place on the front lines this morning, and Gloss's unit is finally able to bunker down to get some rest before they rejoin the efforts. Cashmere and him try to get some sleep, leaning against the wall of the dilapidated building their unit has claimed. His sister had nodded off immediately, but even though he's exhausted, he's having trouble falling asleep.

He glances at the small group of soldiers who are keeping watch and listens when one of the them responds, "Snow didn't expect us to have so much manpower. The air raid cleared out most of the rabble."

The other soldier grunts and murmurs, "We would never have made it this far without them, that's for sure."

"At this rate, we'll win this whole damned war before the month's over," the third one adds, and even though Gloss thinks he's being a little optimistic, he can't help but feel the hope spread through his chest at the thought.

* * *

In the control room, Elara has a front row seat to what's happening on the ground. President Coin is often in the room with her generals, and Plutarch is constantly by her side. They're always going over plans and rethinking strategies as they look at the data that comes in from the units that are dispatched in the streets of the Capitol.

"Send this flank through the western side of the city," Coin says, gesturing to the area that she's referring to. The large map that's taking up must of the screen in front of them is already plugged in with the updated status of her troops. The red dots that mark their progress blink out their positions.

Elara glances over at the map but her eyes don't linger on it. She has work to do, too. Beetee is dismantling yet another pod and she's helping him plug in the binary code to make it self-explode. Hacking into electronics isn't her forte, but Beetee knows exactly what he's doing and she had gotten the hang of it easily enough.

"If we send them though the west side, then our troops in the southern end of the city will be without backup if they need it," Plutarch points out as he leans against the table on the other side of the room and muses over the map.

One of the generals says something about the tactical importance of the west side over the south side and they get into an argument about what is more important: taking the city or protecting their army. This moral dialogue has been ongoing for days now, and it's always the same. Elara's learned to shut it out whenever she's in the control room with Beetee. If she listens to everything the generals are saying, she'll never be able to concentrate.

At her side, Beetee murmurs, "I need the code for Type 05." He's referring to the specific pod that he's currently hacking into. There are several types that they've specified over the last few weeks, and each of them are set up differently.

Elara flips through the pages of his journal to find where he had written down the various codes, and repeats it verbatim to him. As she's reciting the numbers, she hears Coin order, "Send them to the western end. We need to strangle their resources and this is the best way of doing it. Our soldiers knew what they were getting into when they signed up to fight this war."

The coldness of her words makes Elara swallow thickly, staring hard at the code that she's repeating. She stumbles for a moment, voice choked with a worry that presses into her with all the suddenness of a hurricane sweeping through a forest, and Beetee glances over at her in concern. He had heard Coin's words too, but he doesn't say anything to her. They both know what's at stake, and they both know who Elara is worried about.

When she's done with the code, Beetee turns back to the computer to input the last digits and gets to work dismantling the pod. But Elara – she just glances over her shoulder at the map again, taking in the waves of red dots that are blinking from the contours of the city she knows so well. They look like strokes of blood dashing over the screen.

She wonders which one belongs to Gloss.

* * *

He's always loved the color red. It reminds him of the cactus plant that his mother had kept on their patio, when its flowers occasionally opened and for a brief time, their crimson petals decorated the back door of his old home. It reminds him of eating fresh tomatoes in the summertime of his youth, and seeing the glimmering shine of rubies from the window of the jeweler's shop on the corner of North Main and Roosevelt Avenue, which he would always walk by on his way to school as a boy. It reminds him of auburn hair strewn out over his pillow, haloing around a face that he can recall, with precise detail, even in his sleep.

He's always loved the color red, even when his hands were covered with the scarlet blood of the other tributes as he fought for his life in his first Games. Even when his nightmares were strewn with that blood after he left the arena, and sometimes when he looked down at his fingers he'd see for a split second the ghostly traces of it dripping over his skin. Even when the clients that he would sometimes have wore garish crimson lipstick that would stain the collar of his shirt and leave a film of residue over his skin.

But – right now, as he looks around and sees nothing but red soaking the streets from the blood of countless fallen soldiers and Peacekeepers, he isn't sure that he likes it quite so much as he had before.

* * *

She tries to stop herself from counting the days, but it's impossible. Her mind whirls with numbers. Every morning, the first thing she thinks about when she opens her eyes is how long he's been gone.

One week turns into two. Fourteen days flow into twenty and then more. All the while, lists of the fallen are read aloud every evening when the district gathers together in a show of camaraderie. Coin presides over it, and when she reads the names of their dead, her eyes seem to flicker with sadness for the families who are left broken. She gives out her condolences and tells them all that these sacrifices will pave the way to a brighter future.

If Elara didn't know any better, she might have believed the way Coin's voice shakes when she reads these lists. Maybe she'd even think that the tears that wash through Coin's eyes are genuine. But she's spent too much in the control room listening to her cold, calculating voice. The President of District 13 deals out death with far too much efficiency for Elara to believe the act she puts on for the masses.

In the beginning, she had counted the names that are spoken from these sheets of paper, but after a while, there had been too many to remember. A part of her wishes she could forget the exact number of days since last she saw Gloss, too, but unfortunately her mind has long been programmed to keep track of the absences between them, and she has little success.

* * *

"We're only a few blocks away from the mansion," Cashmere murmurs to him as she pushes more ammunition into her gun. Gloss glances over at her and hums, but doesn't reply. She doesn't really expect him to. Her brother's been very quiet these last few weeks, and she knows why.

Being in the middle of these war-torn streets, taking the lives of other humans, is not easy. Neither is missing Elara Winston, it seems, though Cashmere already knew that. She's watched him miss Elara for years now. She knows that the familiar crease in his eyes is a sign. She's seen it before, countless times.

Gloss is the strongest person she knows, but Elara will always be his weakness.

* * *

When the fallen soldier identification tags are given back to their family members, Elara can't help but wonder if someone will approach her as well. She always sits very still when she watches the generals call the names on the tags so that their families can retrieve them. They are the only thing left of their loved one that is given back. Just a thin piece of metal with a chain looped around it and nothing else.

She always waits for his name to be called. So far, it hasn't, but that doesn't make her anxiety lessen any when she stands in the crowd and waits. It is in these moments that she realizes how lucky they've been all this time. How have they managed to scrape by with all this luck? The road hasn't been easy, but they're both still alive, and that's all that matters.

For now, anyway.

* * *

He gets injured several days later, but even though his arm sears with the pain of the rogue bullet that had hit it, he doesn't complain. He gets treated and has his arm wrapped by a field medic. It hurts like hell when they dig out the bullet that's lodged into the flesh, but he can still move and he isn't about to be shipped back to District 13 at this point. He wants to return to Elara but he won't leave Cashmere behind. They're a pair. Always been, always will be.

The war needs soldiers and he won't abandon it.

* * *

Amelia is even more aggravating without the other Victors around as a source of amusement for her. She hangs off Johanna's arm until the woman snaps at her to get lost, and even then Amelia is too stubborn to listen. She's bored, or so she claims at least three dozen times every day. It's the first thing she says when she wakes up and the last thing she says when she goes to sleep. Elara knows, because in Cashmere's absence, Amelia had decided to move back into their compartment.

She misses the blonde Victor, but she doesn't say it out loud. If Elara didn't know any better, she'd say that her sister isn't worried at all about Cashmere, but she does know better. She can read Amelia's expressions more easily than her sister realizes.

She's glad that she isn't alone during the nights, at least, despite how long it takes for her sister to actually fall asleep. Just knowing that there is another person with her is soothing in a way she can't explain. It reminds her of their early life back in District 5, when their family had been intact and nothing out of the ordinary ever happened.

Sometimes, she thinks of her parents when she lays in her cot. Sometimes her worries keep her awake long into the night, even after Amelia's breathing deepens into sleep. In these moments, she wonders what she'll do if Gloss doesn't come back. She wonders what sort of life the future will bring. Where she will go. Where Amelia wants to go.

District 5 suddenly doesn't seem like a viable option, and she knows that it's because her heart is set on somewhere else. She's wanted to go to District 1 for years now, but the thought of going there without him is bland and morose.

Home does not exist in one single place; it exists in him.

* * *

The days are a blur for Gloss. He thinks it's been over a month now, but he can't be sure. The tides of war seem like they never have an end. After a while, they seem like they never have a beginning either. He gets lost between the shades of them. The push and pull of gun shots and blood goes to his head and leaves him whirling in the aftermath. It isn't until President Snow's mansion rises up in the near distance that he is struck with the heady notion that it is almost over.

Freedom rings in his head until it spins.

* * *

The news comes late one afternoon when Elara is in the control room with Beetee. Though the majority of the pods have been deactivated – either by them, or by the soldiers themselves – there are still more to dismantle before the streets are safe to walk through. She throws herself into this work, hoping that it will help to keep her idle brain busy. For the most part, it does.

Until, of course, one of Coin's communication officers bursts into the room a few hours before dinner and exclaims, "We've taken the mansion!"

Everyone pauses to absorb this news. Plutarch grins. Even Coin, who never expresses emotion, smiles. The sliver of silence lasts only a moment before the generals immediately start launching into plans. They bring up the map again and start talking about how they should best secure the premise and what they should do with President Snow and his loyalists and all manners of other things that Elara doesn't hear, because –

She can only think of one thing: it's finally over.

* * *

It feels like an eternity before his arms are around her again, but when Gloss grabs her waist and heaves her into his body, Elara thinks that it's all worth it. She laughs, so happy that she can barely breathe. He laughs too, but it's muffled into the kiss that he drags her into, and suddenly she can't breathe for another reason entirely.

"I missed you," she cries, feeling tears pool in her eyes. She kisses him back, but their emotions are too overwhelming and they end up kissing briefly, dozens of times as they hold each other.

Gloss exhales roughly against her mouth and lifts a hand to thumb the wetness from her cheeks. Then, cupping her face firmly, he brings her into a deep kiss that is a little more focused this time. Against her, he hoarsely claims, "You'll never have to miss me again. I'll never leave you. Elara – "

She cuts him off with another kiss and laughs tearfully against him, shaking into his body so thoroughly that it's all he can to do hold her up so that she doesn't fall. Her knees are shaking so badly that she isn't sure she can stand.

She doesn't say anything else – partially because she can't form coherent words over her laughter and tears and partially because he doesn't let her. His kisses sweep her words away, swallowing them up as he sinks into her and reacquaints himself with the feel and sound and taste of her. He feels like he's been gone so long, lost in war and death and blood, that all he wants to do is remind himself that there is more to life than just fighting. It's a lesson he's been learning since his youth, but it has never struck home quite as solidly as it does in this moment, with this woman in his arms and the system that has stolen so much from them finally defeated.


	64. I would be less, for having you is more

**Chapter Sixty Four | I would be less, for having you makes more.**

"_O, here will I set up my everlasting rest_

_And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars_

_From this world-wearied flesh."_

_5.3, 109-112 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

All is silent. It is a silence so encompassing that the only sound to be heard is the thunderous swell of her heartbeat in her eardrums, and the wind that tears through the sandy landscape in front of her, and the faint shudder of the duffle bag that Gloss is carrying as the worn leather of it creaks. She hears the arch of her emotions knot in her stomach, so overwhelming that they are nearly painful. She hears the chatter of her sister some ways away as Cashmere leads her through the courtyard that spans out before her.

Sand and rock, with a small crop of manmade grass at its center.

At her side, Gloss tightens his hand around her fingers and looks down at her, but she has eyes only for the desert sky as it rises up in front of her like an endless sweep of blue.

How long they stand there in the gates of the Victor's Village, she doesn't know. It feels like an eternity pressed into a second, and all she can do is stare at the scene before her. She's imagined it so often that to be here, finally, after eight long years, is tremendously emotional.

"You're crying," Gloss murmurs, eyes crinkling at the edges. Whether it's from the intense desert sun that beams down on them or simply the soft smile that captures the corners of his mouth, Elara isn't sure.

She just inhales with a shaky laugh and whispers, "No I'm not."

He purses his lips and turns to her, slipping his hand out of hers so that he can sweep it into her hair. His thumb brushes over her cheekbone, wiping at the tears that slip past her defenses and drop down her cheeks. There is something extremely reverent about the way he tilts her chin towards him and meets her eyes. A tentative smile is pressed between the spaces of them, soft and uncertain.

Maybe this hesitance is natural, considering how this dream has been so out of reach for so long. There have been many changes in their lives over the course of the last few months. As much as she had hoped for this outcome, though, a part of her hadn't really expected that she'd ever be here. Eight years is a long time for hope to remain strong.

She stays very still when he leans in and presses his mouth against her forehead. His kiss is as tentative as his smile, but it is no less beautiful. Even though they have shared many intimate moments, some of which have been so incredibly sublime that they barely even seen real, this kiss that he deposits onto her forehead feels more sacred than all of them put together.

There is a promise in it. It is a promise that has never meant anything quite as meaningful as it does now. Though it's been hinted at many times in the past, there have always been limitations on it because neither of them has ever had the freedom to make it real. But now…

"Cashmere will keep Amelia busy for a while," Gloss murmurs, his voice a low burr of sound as he draws back to look at her. He studies her teary eyes for a long moment before breathing, "Let me show you your new home, Elara Winston."

It's the way he says it, all gentle and imploring; the seamless way his words fit together; the manner in which he uses her full name when he never has before, that makes her gasp out a watery laugh. She stares up at him with eyes full of poignant hope, and he stares down at her with that beautiful smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

"Show me," she demands, reaching for him. He grins and pulls her against his body, fitting her into his side as if it's the only place she belongs.

Together, they step into the Victor's Village, where her sister and Cashmere had long disappeared from. They had gone in a different direction, though. Instead of following them, Gloss leads her to the other side of the street.

"Cashmere and I lived together for ages," he tells her as they step towards one of the houses. "But we technically have separate houses since we're both Victors. This one's mine."

Elara studies the sweeping building. It's a dove grey color that verges on blue. There are a few potted cacti plants on the front step. She peers down at them curiously as Gloss releases her to withdraw his key.

He turns the lock and is about to open the door when he pauses and clears his throat. His voice is just a little bit awkward when he admits, "There's probably a layer of dust on everything. I've never really used this place."

His hesitance makes her chuckle. She leans against the siding of the door and crosses her arms, giving him a wry expression as she murmurs, "Looks like we'll be pretty busy cleaning, then."

Gloss smirks and pushes the door open, then turns to her and snatches her up into his arms, heaving her into the air and laughing at the surprised squeak that she makes. He's still laughing as he walks inside, kicks the door shut with his heel, and slowly lowers her to the floor. Before her feet touch the ground, he's leaning in and growling, "Cleaning isn't exactly how I intend on keeping busy, Winston."

The innuendo in his voice makes her laugh again, though it is abruptly muffled when he swoops in to kiss her. She moans against his mouth and reaches up to loop her arms around his neck. One hand slides into his light brown hair to pull him closer.

He kisses her very thoroughly as they stand there in the center of the foyer. Light streams in from the floor length panels on either side of the door. There is indeed a heavy layer of dust on practically every surface, though Elara doesn't notice until she drags herself away from him with a laugh and says, "I want a tour first."

He hums, following her back to kiss her briefly one last time before letting her out of his arms. Elara turns to study the space, taking in the living room and the way it connects to the kitchen. There is a brown leather sofa pushed up against a wall that faces a television, and the gleaming cherry wood floors are beautiful in the afternoon sun. The layout is similar to her house in District 5, but the accommodations are a lot nicer.

As she looks around at his house, Gloss crosses his arms and looks at her. He can hardly believe that she's here at all. How many years has he spent wondering if there would ever be an end to their constant separations? How often has he longed to bring her to his home and never say goodbye to her again?

When Elara turns back to face him, his eyes are so soft that they almost look watery. She doesn't comment on the obvious emotions sweeping through his gaze, though, because she understands. They have both been thinking the very same thoughts ever since they'd gotten on that train to District 1 with their scant belongings to start a new life – a life that neither of them ever expected to be able to live. She thought she'd be trapped in the Capitol's grasp for the rest of her days, never able to express her love for the man in front of her; never able to make any of her silent dreams into a reality. Quite suddenly, all of those sorrowful thoughts are gone. It feels as though she has stepped through a door into another world, where her shoulders are no longer heavy with grief and her heart is so light that it feels like she could fly.

Silently, she holds out her hand to him, and Gloss steps forward to take it. The smile they give each other is perfectly mirrored.

He shows her around, guiding her through the rooms that he rarely ventures into. It'll definitely take a while to get this place into a more livable condition. The house itself is fine, but most of the surfaces will need to be cleaned. Elara doesn't even bat her eye at the dust though. She doesn't care if there's some work that needs doing. As long as she has Gloss, she doesn't care about anything.

When she glides her finger across a dusty table in what looks to be an office of some kind, Gloss shrugs and says, "I warned you."

But she just sends him a smile and responds, "I think I can handle it." Then, turning to him and running her hands up his chest, she murmurs, "I wonder if the bed is this dusty."

Gloss purses his mouth at her, eyebrows raising just a little as his mouth catches itself into a smirk. He pulls her closer and drawls, "The top blanket probably is."

She chuckles and nudges him into a soft kiss that's part gentle, part needy. Against his lips she whispers, "That isn't going to stop me."

He hums and squeezes her waist when he throatily whispers, "And what do you intend on doing once we get there, I wonder?"

Elara just drags his bottom lip into her mouth, grasping his shoulders as he growls and heaves her into the familiar crevice of his body. As he does, she breathlessly purrs, "I'm going to make you mine."

Gloss just laughs, presses his forehead against hers, and lifts a hand to cup her cheek. In a quiet voice, he tells her, "I've always been yours, Elara," and the smile that spreads over her face at this soft declaration makes him fall even deeper in love with her than he thought possible.

* * *

Amelia is old enough to go her own way, but Elara is relieved that she's decided to come to District 1. Whether it's because she wants to stick close to her remaining family or because Cashmere had offered to give her a room at her house, Elara isn't sure. She suspects that it's a little bit of both. Either way, having her presence here in this unfamiliar world is soothing.

"We went to the city limits today," Amelia gushes over dinner that night. All four of them are gathered around Cashmere's dining room table. It had taken all of thirty seconds to walk across the street after she had called to invite them over, and it's strangely nice to be so close.

Cashmere hums and explains, "I took Amelia to the edge of the city to see the desert."

The landscape of District 1 is truly a sight to behold. Flat plains of grainy sand wash out the entirety of it, interrupted by rocky hills in the far distance and hundreds of cacti everywhere you turn. Elara had seen the view before during her Victory Tour, and then that morning on the train coming into the city. Both times, she'd been surprised at the beauty that such a barren sight could cultivate. There is an energy to this place that you can feel right down to your very bones.

As Cashmere stands up to refill her water glass, she spears her brother a look and says, "You should take Elara when you show her around the city."

So far, Elara's only seen a small portion of District 1. Besides the Justice building where she had done her speech eight years ago, they'd driven through some of the main areas on their way to the Victor's Village that morning. What she's seen so far is starkly different from the dirty grey buildings of District 5. It is another world here.

Gloss grunts in response and doesn't respond, much to Elara's amusement. She edges a glance over at Cashmere, who rolls her eyes and walks off to refill her water.

"We've been cleaning all day," Elara says.

She glances over at Gloss with a wry smile. He purses his mouth to keep his own smile at bay. There's a suggestive air between them that neither Amelia nor Cashmere misses. Elara isn't necessarily lying though – they have spent the majority of the day cleaning. After they had christened the bedroom, of course.

Across from them, Amelia huffs, "I'm so glad I'm living with Cashmere. I don't think I'd be able to bear being around you constantly."

Cashmere laughs at this, instantly agreeing. "Living with Gloss is bad enough, let alone the both of them."

The blonde Victor sits back down at the table and throws Elara a smirk. Elara just shrugs good naturally. She figures that they're probably right, but she's not going to apologize for it. Throughout the course of the day, she's decided that she absolutely deserves this. Eight years is a long time to live with only half a heart, after all. Now that she's here with Gloss in District 1, with no plans on going anywhere, she fully intends on making the most of it.

Elara just chuckles and takes a bite of chicken. Unlike them, Cashmere and Amelia had spent the day cooking. Apparently, Cashmere has been able to get Amelia to actually help out in the kitchen. Elara is a little bit shocked to hear this, but then again she knows how much Amelia idolizes the blonde Victor.

The spread is decadent in a way that almost reminds Elara of the Capitol. They certainly don't eat this well in District 5. She isn't sure if Cashmere had merely taken out all the stops in order to make tonight into a celebration of sorts, or if this is how she's used to eating when she's in District 1. Either way, Elara isn't complaining. There's something incredibly light about the atmosphere around the table. Sitting down to have a meal together is a simple but satisfying event and she hopes it becomes a tradition that they often partake in.

"So what else did you do today, besides going into the city?" Elara asks her sister curiously. She's interested to see how Amelia likes District 1. It's a far cry different from what she's accustomed to.

Amelia's mouth is full of mashed potatoes when she says, "Cashmere showed me the Academy and offered to pay for some training courses!"

At this, Elara immediately draws back and worriedly says, "Oh – that's too much, Cash. You've already offered her a place in your house. You don't have to pay for her schooling – "

"I want to," Cashmere interrupts, spearing Elara with a determined look. Then, with a shrug, she offhandedly says, "Besides, she's basically my sister-in-law now. We're family."

Next to her, Gloss chokes a bit on his water and starts coughing loudly, clearly not expecting this. As for Elara, her cheeks take on a red tinge that she can't seem to keep at bay, and she clears her throat awkwardly as she glances over at Gloss. He's still coughing, having inhaled his water the wrong way. Their combined reactions make Cashmere and Amelia share a look that is half exasperated, half amused.

"Seriously, Gloss? You pretty much asked her to marry you back in District 13," Cashmere says bluntly, but her eyes shine with mirth.

Elara blushes even more when Gloss glances over at her and mutters, "That's – a little…uh. I mean – "

Cashmere is obviously trying to hold her laughter back when she smirks, "I've never seen you flounder so much. Oh my god, this is priceless."

Unlike Cashmere, Amelia doesn't even try to get her laughter under control. She just laughs aloud at Gloss's expense and teases her sister with a drawled, "Are you sure you still want him? He's not exactly the scientist you said you were going to marry when you were fifteen."

Gloss immediately takes offense. "Are you saying I'm not smart?" Then, hearing the rest of Amelia's words, he turns to Elara with a petulant expression and grouses, "Actually, why don't you answer your sister's question, Winston. I think I'd like to know."

Elara feels herself smiling at his sulky tone. The way he says her surname, all grumbling and impatient, makes her chuckle, "I thought I proved myself this afternoon. Or did I not do a good enough job?"

Amelia makes a vomiting sound at the sudden shift in conversation, and shoots up from the table to loudly declare, "I think it's time for dessert! I'm not sticking around to hear the rest of this."

As she makes a beeline for the kitchen, Gloss smirks vividly at Elara and drawls, "I think I need more proof, if you're up for it."

Cashmere groans and immediately follows Amelia without a word, rolling her eyes as Elara murmurs, "Well now we know how to get back at them for teasing us."

Gloss snickers and reaches for her hand. He pulls it into his lap, hanging his elbow off the back of his chair as he turns his body to face hers. His eyes are downright wicked when he throatily tells her, "That's true enough, but I was actually being serious."

Elara raises her eyebrows at him as if she's surprised, even though she really isn't, and smirks, "I'm well aware."

He gives her a wolfish smile and opens his mouth to respond to her, but Cashmere barks, "Help me clear the table while Amelia gets the pie ready. God, you two are gross." The last part is muttered to herself as she reappears and starts collecting plates and silverware to bring back to the sink.

Gloss and Elara share an amused look but don't argue with her. Both of them know better than that. Cashmere is a force to be reckoned with and neither of them are interested in inciting her wrath tonight. They get up and assist with the task, carrying the food back to the counter and getting new plates out for dessert. Amelia wrinkles her nose at her sister when she sees her, but doesn't comment on the wayward conversation she had thankfully removed herself from. Elara just laughs and nudges her with a smile, finding her discomfort a little more amusing than she probably should. Given the circumstances, though, it's a little hard not feel light and humored tonight.

"You didn't make that," Elara denies as she watches her sister divvy out slices of pie. Amelia hates cooking. She would always waste money at the bakery and grocery store on pre-prepared food whenever Elara was out of town because she hated having to put meals together.

Amelia, though, proudly shrugs, "I did too. Well, Cashmere helped with the crust, but only a little." Elara raises an eyebrow at her as if she thinks she's lying, and Amelia snidely tells her, "If you don't believe me, you don't get a slice."

Her mouth falls open. "That's not fair."

Her sister just breezily responds, "Life isn't always fair."

"You brat."

"At least I did something worthwhile today."

At this, Elara smirks and drawls, "I did plenty of worthwhile things today, thank you very much." She casts a smirking glance over at where Gloss is leaning against the counter, watching the back and forth conversation with a raised eyebrow. At her look, he chuckles. Amelia just groans.

"When are you leaving?" she demands, but there's no bite behind the question. Amelia looks amused even as she hands Elara a plate. "Try it."

Elara does, and as the taste of cherries invades her mouth, she shakes her head and says, "Mm…you definitely didn't make this."

Cashmere appears with the last of the dinner dishes, sweeping into the kitchen just in time to declare, "She made it all. She even helped with the gravy for the chicken and prepared the vegetables."

This information makes Elara drop her mouth in shock. "What the hell. How come you never did this in District 5?"

The answer to this question comes quickly when Amelia smartly replies, "Because I like eating pancakes for dinner."

Elara pauses, then turns back to her pie and mutters, "I didn't always make pancakes…"

Across the kitchen, Gloss laughs. She spears him a look, but he ignores it in favor of taking a plate of pie from Amelia. When he takes a bite, he can hardly believe that the girl hardly has any baking experience, because it's delicious.

"You should teach Elara how to make this," he tells Amelia, sending Elara a teasing look. She immediately huffs at him as her sister crows about how she's a better cook than her.

Still, Elara is a good sport about it. Sometimes when she looks at Amelia, her head still spins with memories of that dark cell and the way that knife had been plunged into her chest. It makes her swallow thickly even as she smiles. She's so relieved that her sister is even here at all.

Fate, it seems, is finally spinning in their favor.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Gloss abruptly demands as he watches Elara dig around in his dresser. Though he asks the question, it's fairly obvious what the answer to it is when she pulls out one of his undershirts and starts slipping it over her body. He makes a sound that is petulant and sulky, and Elara bites back an amused laugh.

"I'm getting ready to go to sleep," she airily responds, and then turns to the duffle bag that sits on a dusty chair near the window to root out a pair of underwear.

When she locates them and starts pulling them on, Gloss glowers, "What makes you think you're getting any sleep tonight?"

The inquiry makes Elara grin, and she's thankful that she's facing the wall and not him. She's in the mood to tease him a little. She raises her arms into a stretch and scoffs, "I'm tired from traveling."

Gloss crosses his arms and steps forward to slide his hands around her waist and spin her into him. She laughs as he does, to which he growls playfully and presses her against the dresser as he leans in to kiss down her neck. His hands slip beneath the underwear she had only just put on, clenching around her ass as he murmurs, "You were going to prove that you want me more than some stupid scientist from District 5."

At this, Elara bursts into laughter, grasping his shoulders as her head tips back. She's still laughing even as she tells him, "I said that when I was fifteen, Gloss. Besides, haven't I been proving this for the last eight years?"

This reminder has him drawing back to look at her. He rests his elbow against the top of the dresser as he catches her eyes, lifting one hand to caress the edge of her cheekbone as he considers her words. She's right, of course. He doesn't need any proof at all. If she didn't love him, she never would have stuck by his side all this time. She wouldn't have fought as hard as she has for this life. He's always known that.

Still…

The corner of his mouth quirks up and he shrugs, "I'm just saying that I wouldn't complain if you felt like proving it to me again."

Elara purses her lips to hide a smile and hums, studying the way the dim light of the room cascades over his features and makes his hazel eyes shine brightly. Or – is that just because of the happiness that she can visibly see caught up in every crease of his body? She's never seen him so at ease with himself. It's like a heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders, and it is only now that it's gone that she realizes just how heavy it had been.

There's something soft about the way she looks at him that makes Gloss remain very still. She looks like she's thinking thoughts with tangled roots, but he doesn't have the heart to stop her. Not when she's looking at him like this. When she reaches up to circle her arms about his waist and pull him into her, he's just as happy for it.

"I think we could both use a little more proof," she murmurs, turning her head into his and nudging him into a soft kiss. In response, he pulls her close and kisses her back until she's breathless and wanting, and when he drags her to the bed and heaves her even closer –

Well, they prove a great many things that night, the least of which is that they really ought to clean this room more thoroughly on the morrow.

* * *

There have been so many changes in such a short amount of time that Elara's head spins with it all, but Gloss isn't quite finished altering her life. Later, when they're tangled up in each other on the bed that Gloss never imagined he'd have her on, another change catapults into them. It isn't something that either of them are really planning on discussing tonight, but Elara can't stop thinking about the conversation that had occurred over dinner.

Gloss must sense her unrest, because after a while he drawls, "What are you thinking?"

He turns his head to look at her, dragging his hand up her side and delighting in the soft skin that moves beneath his fingertips as Elara rolls over. She props herself up on her elbow and gazes down at him. A small smile overtakes her face as she studies the mussed up hair and sleepy eyes that peer up at her from below. She's seen this particular sight many times, but her heart still thunders as if it is the first.

He catches her eye and smiles too. The bedside lamp is still on, and the room is washed with dim light. It makes her skin glow and her blue eyes shine, and he thinks that he's never seen her more beautiful than she is right now.

And then she has to go and take him off guard when she abruptly demands, "When are you going to marry me, Gloss?"

His eyebrows shoot up as his expression shudders with surprise. In less than a moment, Gloss is pushing himself up to sit against the headboard and muttering, "This again?"

Elara bites her lip to stop herself from laughing and follows him. She hooks her leg around his waist and pulls herself into his lap, shivering when Gloss lets out a small growl as she fits herself against him.

"You said you wanted to," she reminds him breezily, as if they are discussing something infantile, like the weather. He huffs at her tone, but pulls her closer all the same. His hands slip around her waist as he relaxes against the pillows, and Elara leans into his chest with that wry expression still blazing over her face, as if she finds his reaction amusing.

Well.

"You said you'd never let me go again," she whispers to him, drawing her fingers over his cheek and down to trace the line of his jaw. The soft scruff that grows over it makes her shiver all the more at the rough sensation. Looking up to meet his gaze, which is dark and encompassing, she adds, "You said you're mine."

He hums in agreement and hoarsely tells her, "I am yours."

His confirmation makes her smile. She tries to push it down in favor of keeping this conversation serious, but she fails utterly. It spreads over her mouth with all the unrestricted happiness that buffets inside her, and Gloss has to fight back a smile of his own when he sees how her eyes are shining at him.

"You're ruining all my plans, Winston," he playfully grouses to her, clenching his fingers into her hips and sliding his hands over her lower back. He can't stop touching her; it's an impossible desire that he has long ago accepted. The way her body fits so perfectly against his is not something that he has any willpower to disregard.

Elara raises an eyebrow at him and drawls, "Oh? Do tell me about these plans of yours."

He rolls his eyes at her and grumbles, "If you weren't so fucking impatient, I was going to ask you in a more romantic way." Then, shrugging, he mutters, "I guess I won't bother now. You've saved me the hassle."

She laughs at him, and he chuckles too because he can't help it, but his laughter turns into a pursed expression when she mirthfully repeats, "You, romantic? I'm not sure you're capable of it."

"I've been romantic before," he adamantly denies, and pinches her in retribution. She lets out a squawk and tries to push herself out of his arms, but Gloss merely wraps himself around her and drags her back against him. Then, against her shoulder, he murmurs, "Elara Winston…"

She freezes, grasping him tightly as her heart suddenly beats a mile a minute in her chest. She wonders if he can feel it bandying against his skin as he holds her close in his lap.

"…Yes?" she breathes, closing her eyes because she knows what's coming, and yet she's still so unprepared for it that it nearly makes her cry when it does come. She's been waiting for him for so long, her heart is full of so much happiness that it's painful.

Gloss sighs out against her ear, threads a hand into her auburn hair, and swallows back the rush of emotion that hits him squarely in the chest. He can hear the intense longing in her voice. He can feel the tentative way her body rests against his, as if she's almost afraid to hope.

She needn't be. In the softest voice she's ever heard him use, Gloss murmurs, "Will you come to the desert's edge and make me an honest man?"

She grasps him tighter and lets out a laugh that verges on a sob, and when she shakes in his arms, Gloss just holds her all the more to make up for it. Elara pulls back, and even as she smiles at him, her eyes are watery with unshed tears.

"Yes," she tells him, and he can't possibly stop the grin that captures his mouth. Though her frame shakes with a thousand unsuppressed emotions that have been restrained deep within her for so very long, her voice is unwavering. There have been many things in the last eight years that have made her doubtful and uncertain, but being with Gloss has never been one of them.

He reaches up to cup her face in both his hands, and breathes, "I love you," to her in that soft voice.

And Elara –

Well, she leans into him with a sigh and nuzzles her mouth against his and whispers, "I love you too."

And Gloss pushes her down onto the bed and chuckles as she arches into him and pulls him close to her, and Elara decides that she had been wrong, before, about Gloss being incapable of romance. As he presses slow, worshipful kisses over her body and whispers those words into her ear as he sinks into her, she decides that she had been very wrong indeed.


	65. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"_That in gold clasps locks in the golden story;_

_So shall you share all that he doth possess,_

_By having him making yourself no less."_

_1.3, 92-94 Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

A blustering wind sweeps over Elara, lifting wisps of hair from the carefully braided updo that Cashmere had spent the better part of the afternoon on. As the auburn strands are pushed into her eyes, the gust picks up the hem of her dress and it flies forward. It bandies against her legs for a few fierce moments before fluttering back down in layers of gauzy chiffon. She feels like the air that breezes into her; as light and buoyant as the clouds. In the dark of night, with the stars blaring through the heavens with such candor, her white dress glows.

And then there is him. If she glows, then so does he. Elara doesn't think she's ever seen him as perfect as he is now, if only because he's about to be completely and utterly hers.

He smiles when he sees her, and she smiles back. She doesn't spare a glance at Cashmere and Amelia as they idle nearby, nor to the man who will be presiding over the small ceremony. She can look nowhere but forward; nowhere but at him.

When he reaches for her hand, she clutches him so tightly that it's almost as if she's afraid to let him go, as if she thinks he'll disappear on her. He wants to tell her that that's nonsense. He's had plenty of opportunities to do just that over the course of eight long years. He hasn't been able to let her go then, and he sure as hell isn't about to let her go now. He's waited for this moment for so long that his heart is full to bursting. With what, he can't say. Love and hope, nervousness, excitement – it all bundles together inside him with such force that he can't form any words at all. Instead, he just pulls her to his side and twists his fingers into hers.

"You look gorgeous," he tells her, and grins.

Elara grins too and squeezes his hand. In a shaky tone, she whispers, "I'm nervous. I don't know why."

There's no reason to be. This gathering is intimate. They might as well be alone on the edge of the world itself. The city is behind them, with all its lights and all its noise. Ahead is the vast expanse of the desert and the brilliance of the universe as it slowly reveals itself to them in the final rays of the setting sun. Dusk is falling hard, alighting the sky with a range of color that almost doesn't seem real. It is like she's standing in the middle of a dream. She thinks that, perhaps, she is. This has been her dream for years.

Gloss swallows. He murmurs, "I am too, but I do know why."

She turns to him to ask, "Tell me?"

He smiles and shrugs, "It's because I'm still wondering if this is a dream and I'm about to find out that none of it is real. That the war never happened and that you're still in District 5…that you'll always be out of my reach."

Elara feels her eyes fill with tears, which she blinks away before they can appear. She's cried too much lately. She doesn't want to anymore. And yet – his words somehow mirror her own feelings perfectly, and she thinks that perhaps that's why she's nervous too. She's so accustomed to never being able to have all of him that suddenly, the prospect seems impossible and nerve-wracking.

She exhales and breathes, "It's not a dream, though. It's real."

At this, Gloss smiles. His eyes crinkle at the edges, and for a moment she thinks that his eyes look a bit watery too, until he sighs and reaches up to smooth down a wispy strand of her hair. As he puts it back into place, he says, "Let's go."

She takes a breath and nods, and together they walk to where the judge is standing. It truly is a rudimentary scene. There are no decorations to liven the space up. No strands of fairy lights or flowers. There isn't even a podium for the judge. Besides the dresses that Cashmere and Amelia are wearing as they stand on either side of the man, it would be impossible to tell that this is even a wedding scene at all.

She's pretty sure that this isn't usually how they do things in District 1, where the culture is so luxurious and wealthy. Gloss had told her to plan out whatever she wanted, but the truth is that she doesn't want anything but him. Planning out an elaborate wedding and spending an inordinate amount of money of it all counteracts the simplicity of her true desires. She's wanted him for too long to waste time with such things. And besides –

As the sun fades into the distance and the stars come out at full force into the night sky, with such brilliance that it takes her very breath away, Elara thinks that she doesn't need anything else. Nature itself paves the way for them, blessing this night with a beauty that goes beyond anything she's ever seen.

And it keeps blessing them, as if it is making up for all the times that Fate had bandied them about, turning them in circles. All the times that they've wondered if it's all worth it – if love itself is worth it – or if they should just give up and carry on in opposite directions.

Maybe that's the way Fate operates. Maybe it curves the road on purpose, so that you can't see the other end of it until you get there. Maybe it means to test you, to decide if you deserve all the blessings that it wants to give you. To figure out if you're strong enough to walk past the obstacles that it sends into your path. It doesn't want you to fail; it wants to make the final outcome worthwhile.

If that is the case, then Elara thinks that it is most definitely worthwhile. Everything about this night is as perfect as she could have imagined, even when –

"Where are you taking me?" she laughs, once the vows are said and they have a small celebration at Cashmere's house. They only stay for an hour or so before Gloss is pulling her out of the building and down the steps.

"I told you already, Elara," Gloss says impatiently, grinning as he turns to her and pulls her into his arms. She laughs as the world spins for a brief moment before flattening out again, and she sees that he's taking her to a car that hadn't been there before. As he walks towards it with her in his arms, he says, "I've picked out a great place and I intend on keeping you there for at least three weeks."

Elara laughs again and repeats, "Three weeks? It better be good if you want me to stay for that long."

Gloss though, he just smirks widely and says, "By the time tonight is over, you'll never want to leave."

She snickers and leans in to kiss his cheek as he reaches the car, and against his skin she playfully teases, "You'll forgive me if I make you live up to those words."

He hums, sets her down, and opens the car door with a smirk.

"Get in, Winston."

She laughs.

"I will."

And – well, his words prove to be true, but then again, she already knew they would. Here on the edge of the desert, Fate's gleaming silver doors have been opened to them at last.

**The End**

* * *

Thank you to everyone who has enjoyed this story, especially those of you who have been with me from the very first chapter. Gloss and Elara's story has been a rocky road, and now I am happy to bring it to the close that I've envisioned for them. This is the end for Gloss and Elara. I won't be writing any more for them. I feel as though everything that needed to be said has been said. If you enjoyed this story and my writing, please feel free to follow me. I have many more stories that I'd like to publish here, including other Hunger Games ideas that I hope to work on in the future.

Because this story was loosely based off of Romeo and Juliet, I thought it would be fun to write some sonnets for the chapter titles. If you are interested, I have included the poem as it was meant to be read, in all of its mock-Shakespearean glory:

_**Sonnet 1**_

_My love, you are an arid summer storm;_

_In cloudless blue, the roughness of a gale;_

_In gentle skies, a fury misinformed;_

_A tempest trapped in a preserving squall._

_You are a bolt of lightning in a snare,_

_That burns the brighter with each pass of time;_

_Within your eyes, a seething moonlit prayer,_

_Which seeks to bolster all it holds divine._

_Your clash is like a symphony of sound_

_Which, even as it plays into the night,_

_Each silvered note the very stars astound,_

_And makes me burn; my very soul made bright._

_If you are a storm, then let me say this:_

_I am a cloud that ventures into it._

* * *

_**Sonnet 2**_

_You are an open ocean swept aside;_

_An endless sea whose depth cannot be found._

_This stormy tempest perforates the skies,_

_And measured in these limitations, bound:_

_It can't be seen with eyes or marked with touch,_

_Though mortal souls do wildly exert;_

_Its depth is far too short, and yet too much_

_To find the center of thy sunken earth;_

_Nor calmed with any word that's known to man,_

_This wave that breaches heaven's gleaming doors;_

_Nor made less vast, or vaster by demand,_

_But, angered, it is built up all the more._

_For in this storm that sets my ship astray,_

_I've lost the north star's guiding silver ray._

* * *

_**Sonnet 3**_

_If Fate be cruel then I will mark it down,_

_For mortal minds make mountains out of pain,_

_And often in their pity do they sound_

_The grumbled cries of their own shifted blame._

_Then shall I paint a picture of my love,_

_That might explain the cruelty of fate?_

_I'll start with bad and end on good, thereof,_

_In hopes of summarizing this strange state._

_This love is like a tangled untrod path,_

_Whose gates lay open to Love's boundless fleet,_

_And blind fools set upon this perfumed track_

_Not knowing of its endless quality._

_This love is like a wistful bitterness_

_That hangs upon my shoulders like a weight,_

_In nighttime hours its gentle blooms do sprout;_

_By day, it seems to propagate this hate._

_This love is both a curse and prayer in one;_

_Its fatal arrows bleed my soul, and yet_

_With every show of love that you perform,_

_I am the fool who ventures through that gate._

_In sinking into Love's eternal care,_

_It lifts me up while making me despair._

* * *

_**Sonnet 4**_

_I must speak not, for silence knowledge owns,_

_And yet my lips seek out this tender kiss;_

_The quiet tide of stillness so renown_

_Is made of thorns that not so gently prick._

_I know not what eternity is like,_

_Or what it is to keep you in my arms;_

_Our love is like a poem said in night,_

_And rarely sees the tender press of dawn;_

_Or speculates with any certain prose_

_A softer twist of fate; a beggar's plea,_

_That might make this love easier to hold_

_And vault it into immortality._

_And yet if you were on the farthest shore_

_I would be less, for having you makes more._

* * *

Thank you all once more for reading, commenting, and enjoying the story.

Much love, Crashing Petals


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